A Trap of Parental Proportions
by 16magnolias
Summary: Gigi Holmes is quiet and sensitive. Lydia Hooper is not. Lydia is incredibly intelligent – Gigi – well, she's working on it. Gigi worries. Lydia does not. Together, they make almost as good a pair as their parents. This is the tale of 2 estranged sisters who meet at summer camp, and form a plan to reunite their parents. Fun S3 AU Parent Trap. More info inside.
1. Prelude to a Ploy

**Hello!**

**This is an AU, post-S3 fic (will contain some spoilers) based on both BBCs "Sherlock" and Disney's 1998 (Lindsay Lohan) version of "The Parent Trap". There will be teensy little flashbacks in each chapter depicting how Sherlock and Molly got together and had kids in the first place – which will occasionally get a little dramangstish (haha…drama/angst/ish) but nothing too bad. It seems since summer has arrived I have been obsessed with movies from my childhood. For the most part this is a silly, fun, lighthearted fic to celebrate my summer vacation.**

**I was having a bit of writer's block with my other fic Lessons in Love and I'd written this. (If you're reading it; I'm working on the last two chapters of that one...my goal is to have them both posted by Saturday evening!) **

**But I was too excited to wait to post this...**

**Not sure if it's been done before (haven't seen it, but it's entirely possible I just haven't stumbled across it...)**

**I do not own the lyrics I quote, Sherlock, or The Parent Trap. Those belong to their respective creators. **

**This is not related to my other fics.**

**I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

* * *

Chapter 1: Prelude to a Ploy

_"Oh - where do we begin?_

_The rubble or our sins?"_

-Bastille

**_Mo-lly. Mo-lly. Mo-lly._**

_Sherlock's pounding feet mimic the rhythm of his pounding heart, echoing her name into the deepest recesses of his mind and being. His lungs, aching for oxygen, burn with the intake of frigid February air. But he doesn't stop._

_She has done so, so much for him – faking his death, hiding the truth for years, being there for John when he could not be, patching Sherlock himself up and holding him together, all that time – she has been so strong, and so resilient, and so…reliable…that the possibility that she could already be dead – that Moriarty has changed the game from beyond the grave, yet again – has not even registered. In his mind, it is inconceivable that he could lose this game, and lose her. Along with John, she is his constant in a life full of variables. She's never failed him before. And there is no possibility, probable or not, that he could fail to find her, or that she could fail to be alive when he comes to her rescue. _

_Which, although it hasn't occurred to Sherlock himself, yet - says something about his __**feelings**__._

_Because when John had disappeared five days ago, with only a vague clue behind to alert Sherlock to his location, Sherlock __**had**__ faced the possibility that his best friend – the best man he had ever known – could be dead. _

_Dead at the hands of the resurrected James Moriarty. _

_ - Or, to be more precise, the terrifyingly brilliant little 'game' Moriarty has set up to be played posthumously, in the case of his early demise. _

_Apparently, Sherlock has missed some pieces of Jim's web. _

_And so Sherlock is running faster now, desperate to reach her – because suddenly, as he passes the remains of tombs and graves and vaults long eroded and as the salty spray of the ocean tide rises higher, the last part of Jim's clue as to Molly's whereabouts - the entirety of the poem Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe – that last line – "in her sepulcher there by the sea – in her tomb by the sounding sea" – clicks into place. _

_And it terrifies him._

_Stupid. __**Stupid**__. _

_He stops in his tracks, John nearly running into him from behind – Sherlock didn't thank God because he didn't believe in him, but – but – if he did, he would've thanked him a thousand times over, because John had been found unharmed mere hours after his disappearance – but in Molly's case – it's already been nearly two days - and he can't find her, but he __**can't**__ fail her, so he pulls at his curls, as though the action will draw the thoughts and facts and deductions out of his mind faster, and he comes dangerously close to sending a prayer heavenward. _

_Which one? Which one? Which one did Jim instruct Moran to put her in? Where is Molly? _

* * *

_11 years later_

_ April_

When the papers came in, Anthea grinned.

She didn't usually indulge in such blatant expression of her emotions, given her job, and her employer – she was a professional, after all - but for _this_, alone in the office, she would make an exception.

It was _about time_.

About time for Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper to become involved in each other's lives again.

Anthea would never admit it aloud – her livelihood depended on her ability to mask her emotions perfectly – but she had always been quite fond of her employer's little brother. Almost…_almost _thought of him as her own kid brother. She certainly knew as much about him as a sister would know – she kept tabs on him for Mycroft, and was well aware of his everyday habits and eccentricities. And sure, he was pretentious and rude and came off as extremely, chillingly unfeeling – but his flippancy and arrogance were really just walls built up to keep people out; to keep from _feeling_ too much, because he _did_ feel. Not many people saw it – not even John Watson, though he did occasionally have an inkling - an insight into Sherlock's inner machinery.

Anthea, however, saw it regularly.

So did Mycroft.

And so did Molly Hooper.

Anthea liked Molly Hooper immensely. She was a bit – _exasperating_ – and pity-inducing - when she stuttered, sure – but Anthea appreciated a strong mind and a woman who could see past Sherlock's defenses. A woman who saw Sherlock for what he was, and loved him anyway. A woman who was patient enough to wait for the blind fool to see what had been staring him in the face for several years.

When Sherlock first began to prefer Molly over all the other pathologists at Bart's, Anthea had done a little research into Molly's background. Standard protocol, with the Holmes family. And she had liked what she'd seen – remarkably intelligent, independent, quiet, and by all accounts, trustworthy. Her only fault was her obvious crush on Sherlock. Mycroft had deemed her 'safe' and Anthea had (privately) deemed her 'a possibility'.

When Sherlock and Molly became sort-of-friends, after the Adler incident – and _especially_ after that apology at Christmastime – Mycroft had upgraded Molly's surveillance level and Anthea had upgraded her to 'a probability'.

And when Sherlock had gone to Molly – all on his own accord – for help faking his death during the whole Moriarty fiasco – and when he had gone to her repeatedly during his 'death' – well. Mycroft had given Molly the highest level of security and surveillance possible, and had even been known to stop by for a biscuit or a slice of cake, now and again. And Anthea – Anthea had given Molly the label 'it's-only-a-matter-of-time'.

Sure enough, after the whole Moriarty's right-hand-man playing out a wickedly clever game per his dead employer's instructions, thing – Sherlock and Molly had come together in every sense of the word.

And Anthea found that keeping tabs on the two of them was much more enjoyable. Almost like a rom-com, really. Very entertaining.

When Sherlock proposed (rather off-handedly) several months later that they get married to 'make those mundane things' easier (he was referring to banking and rent), and after relieving some incredulousness on Molly's part with a second, much more romantic proposal, planned with the help of John – when Molly said yes – although Anthea betrayed nothing to Mycroft - when she went home that night, she had a glass of wine to celebrate, and danced around her flat with joy.

She failed to hide a smile when she found that Sherlock and Molly were expecting, only three months after having been married. She learned to regret that smile, because in true Holmes brother fashion, that small display of sentiment made Mycroft neglect to inform her of his plans to offer his brother an exciting opportunity abroad, right as Molly was due to have her baby girls – _twins_, as it turned out.

And then, of course, Mycroft neglected to inform Molly as well.

Mycroft was just a mountain of neglect and inaction, in those last few days of Sherlock and Molly's marriage.

And though Anthea knew that Sherlock and Molly were adults – Mycroft hadn't _encouraged_ either one to get a divorce, per se – he also hadn't done anything to discourage it. And he could have discouraged it. And he could have waited to offer Sherlock that _exciting opportunity_. And he could have told Molly, and he could have let the couple discuss things _before_ shipping Sherlock off to Greece. And he could have avoided insulting his brother's newfound attachment to _sentiment_ at the exact moment when Sherlock was at his most vulnerable point, emotionally, and he could have avoided certain _insinuations_ about the negative affects of sentiment on deductive reasoning when discussing things with Molly, and…well. The list went on. The couple hadn't seen the whole picture like Anthea did, and she blamed both Holmes brothers equally.

The resulting hurt on both sides was enough for Sherlock and Molly not to fight the divorce. But Anthea knew they missed each other.

And Anthea knew Mycroft regretted his part in Sherlock and Molly's failed relationship.

For an _Ice-Man_, he really had warmed to the little pathologist. Hadn't realized it until she was no longer in his life…but he did like her. And he _did _care immensely for his little brother. And really…he _adored_ his nieces.

So, he tried to make up for it in little ways.

Such as paying for the girls' summer camp.

Molly had moved to California, both to accept a position as the head of pathology for Queen of the Valley Medical Center in Napa Valley, to escape the chance that she could be drawn in and heartbroken by Sherlock again, and to escape the majority of Mycroft's influence on her, and her daughter's, life. She did, however, allow him to pay for Lydia's summer camp.

Lydia was still his niece, after all, and she deserved the same chances to expand her mind that her identical sister Genevieve received, although Lydia was never told who paid for her camp, and wasn't even aware that she _had_ an Uncle Mycroft. Not yet, anyway.

Molly had also allowed him to provide an American agent – for their safety – _you never know when an old enemy will rear his head, Dr. Hooper, and although __**you**__ may be done with us, I fear that that would not be enough to dissuade a hitman –_ and so she grudgingly accepted the protection ofMary Morstan.

Whom she had promptly befriended and won over to _her_ side.

Apparently she served as a sort of live-in…_something_ for them now. She worked part-time as a nurse at the hospital Molly worked at, and the rest of the time, Mary was…not exactly a child-minder or housekeep…but…she kept things running smoothly. Mary still reported to Mycroft, but only the most basic information about her charge's health and well-being. Her loyalties lied with Dr. Hooper, now.

And so, after waiting _years_ for two of her (privately) favorite people to come into contact again - Anthea felt no small surge of satisfaction when she noted that both parents – Sherlock _and_ Molly – had chosen the _same_ summer camp for their girls, this year.

_It was about time_.

* * *

"Sign here," Anthea noted, pointing to a line at the bottom of the page, "and here, sir," she added, turning the packet of papers over, and allowing her superior to sign his name with an impatient flourish.

Mycroft signed, and capped the pen primly as he pressed his lips together. He then blinked, and smirked. "Anthea," he said, eyeing her over the paperwork – "were you aware that both my dear younger brother and Dr. Hooper chose the same summer camp for Genevieve and Lydia this year?"

"Well aware, sir," she replied, and smirked knowingly in reply.

* * *

**Please review and let me know your thoughts!**

**I've already written the next two chapters of this...because it was so FUN! But I'm trying to hold off posting them until I'm done with my other fic because...I don't want to leave people hanging, on that one. **

**The next chapter will introduce Gigi and Lydia...fun fun fun! :)**


	2. Lost and Found

**Hi everybody! **

**Sorry this took a bit to update...I'm usually a bit faster, but I was on vacation. I'm back now, and it's summer! Because it's summer, though, updating will be a little sporadic. Please don't be surprised if I update a few chapters in one week, and then go a week or two without updating, because that's how summer is, right? :)**

**Thank you so much to OpalSkyDivineLove for taking a look at this and giving me some feedback on this chapter. You're awesome! :)**

**Anywho - thank you so much for your reviews and follows and favorites! I'm so excited for this. It's just fun, really. Hopefully this next chapter lives up to your expectations. **

**I don't own Sherlock, or lyrics, or the Parent Trap.**

**UDPATE 7/7/2014: Made some changes, please re-read before reading Chapter 4, or you will be confused. Sorry & thanks!**

* * *

Lost and Found

_"All this time I was finding myself and I –_

_I didn't know I was lost."_

-Avicii, "Wake Me Up"

* * *

_"PUSH!" Sherlock growls, the command reverberating in his chest - and the tendons in his neck bulge from the strain of pushing against the cement slab of the tomb, where he is sure Molly is trapped. _

_John's own face is red from exertion, but finally, finally – the slab moves - slowly, slowly - and then all at once – and John staggers back, jumping to avoid the piece of crumbling stone that would have crushed his foot._

_And by the time he steadies himself, Sherlock has already leapt into the crypt, taken her pulse – "Sluggish", he announces -_

_ And he has checked her breathing – "Labored – but regular. She's alive!" – he doesn't even bother to try hiding the relief in his voice – _

_And within seconds of finding her, Sherlock is already pulling Molly – their resolute, unsinkable, currently unconscious Molly Hooper – out of the tomb. _

_John scrambles around to help, surprised that Sherlock has taken the lead in this – saving lives is usually work he leaves for John –_

_And John shakes himself from his stupor, and squats down beside them, clinical doctor's eyes taking in both subjects before him - because although not even five seconds have passed - Molly is unconscious, and her lips and fingertips are tinted the ashy, blue-grey colour of a shadow on snow, and Sherlock – well - he has her propped up, practically in his lap on the cold ground - her back to his chest, her head just beneath his chin, clinging to her, warming her – he is looking at John with demanding eyes and a sudden look of desperation so intense that John is sure that to feel that way for even five seconds is to feel that way for an eternity. And John realizes that though the detective is loathe to admit it – Molly means a lot more to Sherlock than the man has ever let on before. _

_So John shakes his head in wonder – apparently this self-labeled sociopath has a heart, and it's bleeding right now for a stammering pathologist with quick hands, a warm heart, and a penchant for fruit-patterned jumpers - and he calls for an ambulance and begins the monumental task of coaxing warmth and life back into Molly Hooper. _

* * *

_11 years later_

_ June_

_Napa Valley, California_

The outcome was inevitable from the start, Molly decided. The end known straight from the beginning, like one-hit wonders or the propensity for certain cheap drugstores to carry only the crappiest of lipsticks.

Lydia Margaret Hooper was her father's daughter.

It had started when she was young – barely six months old, babbling _ma-ma-ma-ma_ repeatedly in her increasingly frustrated, demanding baby-language. Molly had been unpacking in their new home in Califronia, and Lydia had been exceedingly fussy. In between unpacking the plates and saucers and attempting to find a tin of food for Toby, Molly had done all she could think of to sooth her daughter – and she knew definitively that she wasn't hungry, wet, cold, hot, or lonely.

Molly's mouth dropped in mild horror when she finally realized that her baby girl was _bored_.

Hence began the difficult task of teaching Lydia societal norms and mores, and the monumentally more difficult task of teaching her to keep herself (_safely_ and _appropriately_) occupied.

Because bored Lydia Margaret Hooper turned out to be just as - _exhilarating? hilarious? breathtakingly endearing? _– _no, dangerous_ – dangerous, she decided firmly. Bored Lydia turned out to be just as dangerous as bored Sherlock.

_No, Lydia, you may not experiment to see if our toilet really can flush thirty golf-balls._ (Molly had been too late on that one – a four-year old Lydia had been up to her ankles in toilet water, and the golf balls bobbed traitorously around her as she gave her mother her most winning, wide-toothed, innocent-eyed grin.)

_No, Lydia, you absolutely may not ask the neighbor for their cat's hairballs to compare them to Toby's. _(A post-incident lecture.)

_No, Lydia, you may not climb to the roof and drop things from it to test the theories of gravity and wind resistance, respectively. _(Mary had been home, and had caught her just in time.)

_No, Lydia, it is NOT 'fun for everyone' if you win every game of Clue after only five rounds of play. _(This lesson had not sunk in. Lydia could now guess correctly after only four rounds of play.)

_Yes, Lydia, you must say thank you – sincerely - for a gift, even if a dolly has no practical applications for an eight-year-old scientist. _(Sadly, most of Lydia's lessons came after-the-fact.)

And yet, Molly Hooper wouldn't change a thing. Molly smiled to herself as she folded the last T-shirt in the bunch and set it atop the laundry basket. Surveying her handiwork, she stood, propped the full basket of clean clothes on her hip, and started up the stairs.

A Kelly Clarkson tune was blasting from Lydia's room, and when Molly opened the bedroom door, Lydia had obviously done more dancing and singing than packing. T-shirts and jeans lay sprawled around the room, paired in disarray, and all of the toiletries Molly had so carefully packed in a sealed case were now uncapped and aligned on top of Lydia's dresser.

"Lydia," Molly called, turning down the radio. "Lydia Hooper – why have you unpacked everything we've just packed up?"

Lydia frowned and turned, the makeshift-hairbrush-microphone in her hands falling to her side. "Because you packed everything without me. Well," she clarified, "what I mean is, you packed all of the toiletries without me. I had to make sure they all smelled right-"

"-_smelled_ right?" Molly asked, setting the basket of laundry on the bed. _That's a new one._

"-like home. And then I realized that I should probably - " Lydia said simply, and continued on with her obviously well-thought-out reasoning behind the mess, as if it answered everything. And, really, it did.

Involuntarily, Molly's eyes grew moist, and she blinked rapidly. _She wanted it to smell like home_. She moved to give her daughter a hug.

"-and – Mooo-ummm!" Lydia protested, twisting out of the apparently too-long and much-too-firm display of affection. "As I was saying, I had to make sure I had the right ratio of T-shirts to jeans, and the right amount of socks, because chances are they'll get wet -"

And Molly shook her head, and smiled, and began helping her daughter re-pack her duffle. She secretly wondered, with a not-unfamiliar pang of…_regret? longing? _if her daughter Genevieve had turned out as magnificently, beautifully strange and amazing as Lydia.

* * *

_London, England_

_June_

If Lydia Hooper was a thinker and doer by default, then Genevieve Holmes was a watcher and waiter.

It wasn't as though anyone in the small circle of adults she grew up with – Uncle John, Mrs. Hudson, Uncle Mycroft, or Mr. Lestrade – later, Greg – had told her directly, about her father.

All of them – even Uncle Mycroft, and he seemed to be the most – sneeringly patronizing, of her father, in his brotherly way – all of them were always very careful to phrase her father's obvious eccentricities in the most positive of lights.

And she knew her father was eccentric. They did have a telly, after all, and although she certainly didn't sit in front of it at all hours (her father most _certainly_ would never allow that) – she had seen enough of television families to know that hers was an odd one.

Not that she minded.

Telly fathers told their daughters they loved them, and told them bedtime stories of princess and magic and threw them surprise parties and bought them ponies and puppies and came to their sports games or dance recitals.

Her father showed her he loved her by playing over her bed with his violin, and telling her real-life stories of daring adventures (sadly, no romance), and teaching her the proper way to hail a cab or escape from the boot of a car.

_"She's six years old, Sherlock, you can't be teaching her how to escape from the – if she's – you can't be telling your six-year-old daughter she could be kidnapped!"_

_"Would you rather she not know how to escape in the event she was kidnapped? Really, John, if parents taught their children practical things like this instead of foolish nonsense like how to catch a ball or ride a bike, we'd have far fewer kidnapping cases to solve!"_

And Uncle John had stopped, and his face had slowly changed from outrage to thoughtful understanding, looking between six-year-old Genevieve and her odd, odd father.

_"You really are…you're…protecting her, aren't you?"_ John had asked.

And then an awkward silence, in which she'd self-consciously found her father's hand. He held it gently in his own, looking down, and then quickly back at John – "_I'm teaching her to protect herself. It's far more…sensible."_

And so Genevieve Holmes had understood, at six, that although her father rarely said the words, his actions spoke volumes to the fact that he loved her.

She had also learned, by watching the adults around her, the best ways to interact with her extraordinarily peculiar father.

At three, she had learned that she was one of the very few people he'd not shrug off or refuse physical affection from – and she found herself very often wandering over to him, to receive a reassuring pat on the head or squeeze of the hand or kiss on the cheek.

At five, she'd learned that her father thought mostly in terms of something she'd later learned was logic and deductive reasoning, but at the time, her five-year-old self deemed 'science'. When she'd asked him about it – his science - he'd immediately brightened, and had begun explaining concepts so outlandishly foreign and complex that Genevieve's mouth had dropped. He'd only stopped when she placed her hands over her ears and stamped her foot and demanded that he _stop_.

He'd tried again later – when she was a bit older – but science had never been Genevieve's forte. She could learn it, but she didn't _enjoy_ it, and so though her father still taught her things in the way of logic and deductions, he also generously branched out and taught her other interesting, important things. Like the areas on the human body most sensitive to kicks and hits in the case of self-defense, and how to tell if someone was lying based on the movement of their eyes and mouth. And of course, how to kick everyone's tush at _Cluedo_.

At six – after the self-defense and kidnapping-escape lessons (which to her father's pride and her uncle's chagrin, she used on a little boy who tried to kiss her at school) – at six, she'd learned, in a somewhat brilliant revelation, that music was yet another way to relate to and connect with her amazing genius of a father.

After he'd been called in to the Head's office for the aforementioned defense of a stolen kiss (Uncle John had made Dad go, she was sure of that) – her father had come home and begun playing a cheery waltz on his violin.

And she realized that _he_ was cheery because she'd used one of the maneuvers he'd taught her to escape from her classmate's (_Tommy – ugh) _clutches. And he was expressing it through that waltz.

Hadn't he also always played her lullabies and soft, sweet melodies for her to fall asleep to?

And so Gigi (as her uncle and friends had taken to calling her) became even more of a watcher, and a waiter, and a listener.

Gigi listened to music – _all_ music, not just her father's, though she focused on music she thought he enjoyed.

Gigi listened to music the way some people read a good book – slowly, and carefully, at first, letting her moods rise and fall with the tension and resolution of notes - and then repeatedly, to fully understand the meaning behind each unique line and phrase.

She listened, and then she began to discuss it with her father.

_Do you prefer Strauss or Tchaikovsky's waltzes?_

_What do you think of Yiruma's newer music? I like the melodies but his resolutions are always just a bit off._

And it turned out that music – _that_ was something they both connected with.

* * *

Music became Gigi's way of telling her father just how much she loved him.

And Sherlock found that he could teach her this – music – the violin – with as much enthusiasm as he had hoped to teach her _science_.

He had always loved her – from the very beginning - but he was quite certain that he could never love her more than he did when she played her first private recital for him, and John, and Mrs. Hudson, at age seven-nearly-eight.

He was pleasantly surprised to be wrong about that, of course.

She was always finding new and unique ways to induce that particular chemical imbalance that flooded him with warmth and affection for her.

Such as now – so grown up, packed and waiting primly for him to kiss her roughly on the cheek, and say good-bye.

"Well, Dad. Solve some good cases while I'm gone?" She asked brightly, blinking rapidly. She always did try not to cry when she left for camp. Thoughtful, really. He was…incredibly fortunate, to have a daughter who understood his distaste for overly sentimental displays. He still dreaded the day her hormones imbalanced themselves and she became a teenager, however.

"I can only do that if a good case actually comes up," he said in mock scorn, and returned her timid smile.

"Right." She laughed lightly, and looked about, patting her suitcase handle, as though making sure it hadn't wandered away as she was saying good-bye. "Well," she added, after a moment, "enjoy having the fridge for experiments for a few weeks, at least."

He grinned at that. Long ago, John and Mrs. Hudson had ruled that he could only store body parts in the fridge if Genevieve was to be away for more than a week, and it had to be cleaned out and sterilized at least one full day before she returned. Camp was always at least four weeks – this year, it was nearly eight. "I already have one planned on the decomposition of internal organs in stomach acid," he explained.

Gigi wrinkled her nose. "Sounds fab, Dad. Enjoy yourself." She returned his grin.

"You as well," he said, and his expression softened. He always…missed her, when she was away.

"I will," she nodded.

"You know…your uncle will be waiting for you in Virginia."

She nodded again, and before her eyes could prick with tears, she extended one arm around him, and kissed him on the cheek. He returned the kiss, and she entered the security queue at the airport.

She made it through security, and made her way to the main branch she'd walk down to get to her gate. Before she turned the corner, she turned and waved, knowing he'd still be watching.

He lifted a hand in farewell, and then she was gone.

He waited until he could no longer see her retreating form before turning and leaving the airport himself.

* * *

_ Camp Walden for Girls, Virginia  
_

_June_

Lydia Margaret Hooper blew a strand of shoulder-length dark hair out of her eyes, frustrated, and placed her hands on her hips. It was only the first day of camp, and though she wouldn't admit it to her mother - she was already missing her mum, and Toby, and Mary, and _home_. Besides, this whole baggage claim area was _seriously_ poorly thought out. The head counselor was shouting instructions into a bullhorn as campers swarmed in a crazy cacophony of greetings and questions, and bags and backpacks and suitcases were piled up in tiny mountains right beside the drop-off zone. She had quickly determined the mountain that _her_ luggage was most likely to be deposited into. She frowned at the menagerie of luggage in front of her. Where was – ah – yes, there it was. The yellow duffle with flowers all over it, a hand-me-down from her mother. Buried under about four feet of other camper's luggage.

"Hmph. Okay. I can do it -" she huffed, pacing around the perimeter of the luggage pile. She began to work on tugging it out of the heap.

"Okay…no I can't." _Brains only made up for so much lack of brawn, after all. _She was still eons away from succeeding when laughter broke into her concentration. She looked behind her and grinned.

Another girl, probably the same age but much taller, with her blonde hair braided to one side, shook her head. "First year for you, here, eh? Well, there's a trick. Here, allow me." With that, she reached in, wiggled Lydia's duffle around for a moment, and pulled it out a moment later.

"Thanks," Lydia said breathlessly, hoisting the bag onto her shoulders.

"Don't mention it. Name's Dalia. What's yours?"

"Lydia."

"Well, then – welcome to Camp Walden, Lydia. Where are you from?"

Lydia grinned as they began walking towards the cabins. "California. And before you ask - _northern_ California. Napa Valley. No movie stars, there. So...how good are you at the game Clue?"

* * *

Genevieve Violet Holmes carefully adjusted her sunglasses before stepping out of the cool limousine into the warm, humid air of Camp Walden, Virginia - United States of America. She silently took a step out of her car, and unloaded her luggage – a large black suitcase, and a smaller black duffle – before smiling at the man who opened the door for her. It really wasn't necessary for Uncle Mycroft to pay for a limo, or to accompany her from the airport – a cab would have been just fine. But he was supposedly in America on an important _business_ trip, and he was nothing if not insistent, and so she accepted. He was a strange duck, Uncle Mycroft. But she loved him just the same. And though he was loath to ever admit it, he loved her too. She could _tell_.

His quick eyes darted about the camp, taking in the log-cabin style buildings and bustle of people with a slight sneer. "Well," he drawled, twirling the umbrella that perpetually accompanied him, in that bored way so unique to himself and her father – "Here we are. Camp Walden for Girls…" he sighed. "We travelled all the way from London for this?"

(Still, he watched her reaction carefully – it was important that she enjoy her experience, this year. Extremely important, considering the Other Niece present this year. A lot was riding on…sentiment. And much to his chagrin, _that_ was something that not even Mycroft Holmes could manufacture or control.

This was the best chance he'd had at reuniting his brother with that pathologist in ten years. Sherlock wasn't as…_enthusiastic_, with her removed from the picture. And truth be told…_he_ missed Molly Hooper was well. He told himself it was really her pies he missed…but the truth of it was, he missed having someone he could trust to look after his brother as well as (if not better than) he himself could. He…_liked_ the woman.

It was a chance occurrence – sending both girls to the same camp - one that even his dear younger brother couldn't suspect or predict. And the reunion of the detective and the pathologist - it all depended on the _emotional experiences_ of two ten-year-old girls.)

And so he watched her, carefully.

Her quick eyes took in the other campers, the cabins, the forest – and a small smile bloomed on her heart-shaped face. "Well," she said, in the quiet, kind way she always had – "I think it's rather picturesque. Don't you think?" She asked, twirling to take in the scenery.

If she were anyone else, Mycroft would have reverted to his two pre-programmed responses: Ignore or Insult – and he could think of plenty of ways to insult the summer camp swarming with insects and snotty children – but he had a soft spot for his niece that was becoming dangerously large. "Er…" he said primly, using his umbrella to shoo away a fly that was buzzing lazily near his shirtsleeve, "Not my first choice of vernacular, Genevieve."

But he looked at her out of the corner of his eye and offered her a small, tight smile, which she returned generously.

"Now," he sighed, hanging his umbrella on his wrist and pulling out his mobile. "About your father's checklist…why he'd assume the airline I specifically chose for you would loose something between the airport in London and the airport in Virginia is beyond me…" his voice trailed off in irritation as he flipped open the note on his phone.

Genevieve playfully rolled her eyes, but her smile never faltered.

"Vitamins?"

"Check."

"Sensible shoes?"

"Check."

Mycroft rolled his own eyes before proceeding with the next item on the list. "Magnifying glass and list of common deductions, including footprint references, for any cases that come up unexpectedly."

"Check check."

He looked up at her, frowning.

Genevieve smiled playfully at him. "Check for the magnifying glass, check for the list. Go on."

"Suitcase, duffle, sentimental nonsense – that's literally what is on his checklist, Genevieve, I assume you know to what he his referring-"

"- stationary, stamps, and photographs of him, Uncle John, Mrs. Hudson, and you." She explained.

His face froze for a moment as he carefully tucked his mobile back into his pocket. He blinked, and she recognized that look as his very own 'I-don't-understand-what-I'm-feeling-right-now-but-it's-quite-pleasant' look. Both he and her father had one.

He cleared his throat after a moment, and nodded. "Right. Well. You've got it all, then, I think," he said, and then patted his pocket again. "Except – a gift."

He held out a new pack of Cluedo slips. "Perhaps you'll be able to find someone on this continent who can solve the murder faster than you can." And his smile this time was rare and genuine, nearly reaching his eyes.

She grinned at him and took the gift. "Well, I doubt it…but thanks. And thank you for bringing me here, Uncle Mycroft." And she suddenly threw her arms around his middle, and hugged him, and he smiled awkwardly as he gently patted her shoulder in return.

"Remember," he said gruffly, pulling away after a moment. "If you should change your mind, and would like…Anthea, to pick you up here, at the end of camp…"

Genevieve shook her head. "I'll be fine. But thank you."

He nodded brusquely, and stepped back to the limo. "Have…fun."

"I will."

But as the limo pulled away, Genevieve Holmes felt a little nervous about this. She'd been to summer camp every year since she was seven, of course – but this was the longest, by far –two whole months. It would be difficult to be away from Dad, and Uncle John, and Uncle Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, for so long. She'd miss their adventures. But everyone always insisted it was for her own good, and she _did_ always have fun…so she always went.

"Ms. Genevieve Holmes?" A young camp counselor, perky and obviously new to the job (_look at the way she clutches that clipboard, Dad, and she obviously spent way too much time on her hair, this morning – see, I'm deducing!) _greeted her with a wide smile.

Genevieve smiled back, blushing just a bit, and found her cabin assignment from the perky newbie. "Most of my friends call me Gigi."

* * *

As Mycroft Holmes pulled away, he made one phone call to an old employee of his, who was now employed by Camp Walden for Girls.

"Make sure Lydia Hooper is invited to try the archery range."

* * *

Sometimes, the best of plans go terribly awry. Mycroft Holmes should have known better than to meddle…but he never could resist.

Because now, thanks to him - if Gigi Holmes was certain of _anything _in her short life – it was that she _really, really disliked_ Lydia Hooper.

For starters, Lydia had bested her on the archery range. Gigi had always been the _best_ – every year, always – in matters of hand-eye coordination. Inherited it from her father, and improved with years of guidance and practice from both him _and_ her ex-army uncle John Watson. (Apparently, her father had eventually convinced him that self defense was a girl's best friend, in their line of work. And archery was more acceptable (and an extracurricular!) than shooting guns.)

This year – _this_ year, though – though she _claimed_ to have never used a bow before in her life, Lydia's shots breezed through bulls-eyes with ease and grace, and then bragged about how it was all simple mathematics and physics calculations.

It struck one of the few nerves Gigi Holmes had – she'd always been sensitive about the fact that she always felt just a _smidgen_ stupid around her brilliant father. Not that he would _ever_ call her that…she just felt a little…lost, in his explanations sometimes. And her impeccable skill with her steady hands (both in matters of music and when engaging in target practice) was something – one of the few things - she felt she was actually on par with, when it came to him.

And then Lydia came along, and it was all so…_easy_, for her.

Show-off.

* * *

Lydia Hooper was absolutely, totally positive of one fact – she _hated_ Gigi Holmes.

For one, she couldn't take a little friendly competition. When Lydia's score had been posted, and it had beaten Genevieve's score, she'd overheard the girl quietly talking with her friends.

"I've heard she uses math and science and stuff to get those bulls-eyes" – a tall, lean ginger.

"Well, that's impressive…but math and science can't replace actual _skill_," the other girl – Gigi - had said grumpily, going on to tell her friends that she 'would like to have a go at beating this mysterious _Lydia_.'

So Lydia stepped forward, clearing her throat self-assuredly. And when _Gigi_ turned around – they stopped in their tracks, puzzled expressions mirrored on their faces.

It was like looking _into_ a mirror. Same dark, shiny hair, same hazel eyes – the kind that Lydia's mother told her only occur when a particularly warm shade of brown crosses paths with a particularly icy shade of blue. Same slight turn of the nose, same high cheekbones, same…same. A _mirror_ image of Lydia.

Well.

That is, if mirror-Lydia had longer hair (_why would she wear it all the way down to her waist? Soooo impractical. Just like mum. Wait – her hair looks just like mum's! Why would her hair look just like mum's? The probabilities…wow. Very slim…) _and dressed like a stuffy prude. _(Was that seriously a designer blouse? And Dior sunglasses? At a summer camp?!)_

And then Gigi had this goofy grin on her face. "Don't you _see_ it?" She'd asked, obviously amazed at their physical _similarities_. "The – the resemblance, between us? We could be-"

_Don't say it – _

"-sisters!" And Gigi's beaming smile irritated her, because wasn't Gigi just bragging about how she could take Lydia down? About how math and science were no match for actual _skill_? How _fake_.

"The _resemblance_?" Lydia asked, incredulous. "Between you and me?"

Gigi nodded.

"Hmmm," Lydia smirked for a moment, plastering a look of confused innocence on her face. The one that often (well…fine…only _sometimes_) got her out of tough situations at home. "I'm not sure. Turn that way," she said, pointing to the left.

Gigi complied, still smiling shyly as she did so.

"Now the other way," Lydia commanded, pointing to the right.

"And now face me," Lydia finished, grinning like a madwoman and pursing her lips. "Well," she said, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking on her heels, "I _guess_ we _sorta _have a resemblance. But – your eyes- "

Gigi blinked, and her smile began to fade.

"-they're _much_ closer together than mine. A little cross-eyed, too – do you need glasses? And those _ears -_"

Gigi frowned and touched her ears carefully with her fingers.

"-oh, don't worry, dear, you'll grow into them. And with skin that pale – _eesh_. Do you _ever_ get out into the sun? Ever?" Seeing that her barbs had met their mark, Lydia continued with a smirk. "But do you want to know the _real_ difference between us?"

And Gigi bristled and responded with all of the icy spite that her father had demonstrated towards less-than-intelligent clients on more than one occasion. "Let's see – that I have an actual _talent_, and you don't – or that I have _class _and you don't?"

And with that, a feud was born.

* * *

After a lot of spying and using the full power of the deductive skills her father had been teaching her (quick, clever hands and grace were Gigi's gifts…logic, not so much, though she'd been steadily improving), Gigi Holmes learned several things.

She learned that Lydia Hooper was a brilliant, but somewhat arrogant, ten-year-old girl from the West Coast of the United States – probably California.

She learned that Lydia Hooper loved showing off that brilliance.

And she learned that Lydia Hooper had a weakness for Cluedo. Or, Clue – in the United States. Lydia apparently had the knack for guessing correctly after only four rounds of play.

Gigi smiled. She could guess correctly after three.

* * *

"Colonel Mustard, in the ballroom, with the rope!" Gigi announced quietly, eyes glued on Lydia's face, ignoring the gasps of the other campers who'd been playing.

Lydia's eyes darted around the board, lips moving in silent concentration as she worked it out before her. Wrinkling her nose, she glared at Gigi from across the board. "There's no way. You're _guessing_. I mean, you were just _lucky_ this time. Colonel Mustard and the rope, sure – those were obvious. But you _need_ to play the fourth round to know for _sure_ that it was in the ballroom!"

"Nope. I know after three rounds."

"Impossible."

"Nope – _improbable_. But very possible."

"Prove it."

"Gladly."

* * *

And prove it Gigi did. However, after several rounds – _Ms. Scarlett in the Study with the Revolver! – Mr. Green in the Kitchen with the Candlestick! – Mrs. White in the Library with the Wrench! - _ Lydia had picked up on the method Gigi used, and the two of them reached a sort of stalemate.

It didn't last long.

* * *

Battles of the mind quickly progressed into battles of the physical variety. They _were_ ten-year-old girls, after all.

Gigi found her underwear decorating the bushes outside her cabin.

Lydia found a chipmunk in her cabin's bathroom. She might not have blamed Gigi for that one, except there was a Union Jack painted on its back. While mildly impressed that she'd somehow been able to tame a chipmunk enough to get a half-decent representation of the flag on it, that little guy was nearly impossible to catch and had relieved himself all over her towels.

Gigi found a frog in her pillow and (_shudder) _spiders in her sock drawer.

One day, three weeks into camp, Lydia arrived back at her cabin, exhausted and ready for a nap, to find her bunk bed – along with two of her cabin mates' beds – up on the roof of their cabin.

The final straw - for the girls themselves _and_ for the camp counselors and director – was the day that became known at Camp Walden as the Tar and Feather Incident.

* * *

Gigi wrinkled her nose. Something…something felt _off_. Stretching, she yawned and opened her eyes. Blinking the cobwebs away – _wait._

Those weren't cobwebs. That – that was _string_. Yard and yards and yards of _string_ – strung all throughout her cabin – connected to who-knows-what – and quickly, she tried to use her Dad's prized logic to determine which ones went where.

_Blue one – down, around – connected to – chocolate syrup?_

_Red one – up – there – water balloons?_

_White one – oh, white one – that's the fan – with…what – what are those, up there?_

Carefully, carefully, she slid around the strings and out of bed, to get a better look, but here her father's careful lessons failed her – she forgot to look _down_ -

"EEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" She shrieked, as her bare feet landed in – was that – _pond scum?_

Unfortunately, her screams woke the rest of the cabin, and caused the director, who had been standing outside - about to announce surprise cabin inspections – to run into the cabin as well.

They were not as observant as Gigi.

* * *

"_Unbelievable! Inconceivable! Absolutely – completely – totally – rrrreprehnsible!" _The camp director sputtered, rolling the penultimate 'r'. She, along with the head counselor for Gigi's cabin and the entirety of the girls in the targeted cabin, were covered head to toe with every kind of sticky substance imaginable – chocolate syrup, vegetable oil, honey, maple syrup – all stolen from the mess hall - and also, with _feathers_ and _glitter_ – taken liberally from the arts and crafts cabin.

"Genevieve Holmes! Lydia Hooper!" The large woman barked. Almost immediately, the line of sticky, gooey girls took a large step backwards, leaving Gigi alone and very much aflame with embarrassment in the middle of the floor.

After a moment, Lydia Hooper was pushed to the front of the crowd, next to her, biting her lip, her cheeks very much burning with her own mortification. She had not accounted for a _surprise cabin inspection_ the morning of her brilliant master plan.

Not so brilliant, now.

Did the camp director just say _isolation cabin_?

_Heaven help us. _

* * *

The first few days were _awful_.

Crazy Americans. Why would they force you to share a cabin with the one person in the whole camp who probably wanted you dead? _Bonkers._

Gigi shook her head.

At least they had reached a sort of…stand-off. Grudgingly.

As they unpacked their things, Gigi had noticed that Lydia had several books with her. A few of them where the same books Gigi had brought –_Nancy Drew_, _Clarice Bean, Matilda_ – and they talked, stilted and sullen, reluctant – for about ten minutes on the different titles.

And then argued silently that evening, flipping the cabin lights on and off and on and off, disagreeing on how much light was needed to _read_ said titles.

Gigi sighed. This was going to be a long week.

* * *

A break for the girls occurred just as the weather broke.

Lydia had been hanging her posters on her side of the cabin – a large picture of herself with a fat gray tabby cat, charts of the night sky depicting constellations, an illustration of the different types of clouds and the weather they foretold, and microscopic close-ups of things that Gigi only recognized because she'd seen them often enough with her own father.

The window was open, and a gust of cool wind tore through the cabin, bringing some of Lydia's meticulously placed work down in the process.

"Oh!" She cried, and ran to the window to close it.

Gigi leapt up herself, and ran to help her. The rain had begun, and it was splattering through the screened window in fat drops.

After a few moments of struggling, the girls managed to get it closed.

Immediately after, Lydia ran to her downed artwork. "Oh, no," she moaned, hastily picking up piles of damp paper, fervently searching for something.

Filled with a sudden sympathy, Gigi knelt down to do the same. "What are you looking for?" She asked quietly.

Lydia looked up at her, studying Gigi's concerned expression. "Um…a picture of my cat. Toby. He's…"

"…here!" Said Gigi triumphantly. "Right here! Er…" she blushed, because the picture was a little bent, under her left knee, but it had avoided water damage. "…sorry."

"It's okay." Lydia said softly, taking the picture. "Thanks."

"So…" Gigi trailed off, still helping Lydia to collect the papers and posters on the floor. "You have a cat named Toby?"

"Yeah. My mum's. She's had him since before I was born. He's really old now. But he's really friendly. He's been through a lot, she says. Even moved here from England with her." Lydia smiled fondly at the picture as she hung it back in its place near her headboard.

"Your mum's from England?" Gigi asked. "Where from?"

"London. I never hear more than that. She doesn't like to talk about it a lot, which is funny, because she sure will talk about anything else. How I enjoyed my breakfast, for example. How I felt about getting an 'A' on my science test. Whether I preferred the Yoplait or the Oikos yogurt commercials." Lydia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "She's a little crazy, but she's like…my best friend. We do everything together. Except talk about England. Ha. My granddad died there, and my grandmum, and apparently my dad still lives there. They didn't part on good terms, apparently."

"Mmm. Sounds like my mum and dad," Gigi sighed sadly.

"Yours split too?" Lydia shook her head. "No one stays together these days. So who do you live with? Or do they, y'know, share you?"

"My Dad. I've never even _seen_ my mum. Well," Gigi corrected hastily, "not in real life, I mean. I've only ever seen one picture of her. My Uncle John gave it to me. Said my dad had hidden it, but that I deserved to know what she looked like. It's not even a _whole_ picture. It's torn in half, _right _down the middle, like Dad couldn't even bear to see himself in the same _frame_ as her, anymore…." and Gigi paused, nervous laughter trailing off, noting the expression on Lydia's face.

It was something of awe, and wonder, and with the way her eyebrows raised just a tad, and her lips lifted up at the corners, Gigi might say that Lydia looked like – but _no_. It wasn't possible, was it?

Lydia suddenly snapped out of her reverie, and turned to Gigi, appearing somewhat - nervous. "Oh, hey, look! It stopped raining. You wanna go grab a popsicle or something?"

And once again, Gigi was reminded forcefully of the way her father always avoided confronting things that…for lack of a better word…_ frightened_ him.

Lydia was already out the door as Gigi scrambled to her feet and flitted after her. "Lydia," she called once, forcefully.

Lydia stopped and turned, squinting up at her through the new, post-storm haze of sunshine.

"Lydia – I know your parents are divorced…but what is your Dad like?"

Lydia shifted on her feet. "Well…you know…I'm not really sure. I've never met him. But I know he's really, really handsome."

Gigi took a tentative, light step down the stairs, as though afraid to startle Lydia. "_How_ do you know?"

And Lydia froze, frowning - thinking.

Gigi pressed on. "Because…don't you _feel _it? Don't you realize what's happening? I mean, _think_ about it…I…"

And it was as though Lydia had made up her mind to jump in feet-first, full-force, pell-mell, because a switch was flipped and she connected all the dots and barreled past Gigi back into the cabin.

"Yeah, yeah...Gigi – Gigi! You were right, before, we _do_ look alike – _exactly_ alike. The probability – of – of that – it's – _astronomically_ small – when – when did you say your birthday was?"

Gigi frowned, and pulled back a bit. "I didn't – but - it's February the sixteenth."

Lydia's face broke into a large grin. "Gigi," she whispered, "_my_ birthday is February the sixteenth."

And Gigi looked away, pondering the fact on her own. "I'll be eleven…" she said softly.

"So will I!" Lydia exclaimed. "And Gigi – we look alike, and have the same birthday, we are both _remarkably_ intelligent" – a cheeky grin, there – "and - and – this is the _best _part. You only have a dad, and have never met your mum. I – I only have a _mum_, and have never met my dad. You have _one_ picture of your mum, torn right down the middle – and I- I have one of my dad - "

Gigi's eyes were wide with excitement as she finished Lydia's sentence with her – "_torn right down the middle_?"

They grinned at each other for a moment, before Gigi frowned and shook her head. "That – it's too - impossible. I…I mean…how? Why?"

"Genevieve Holmes. We _have _to be sisters. It's the only logical conclusion. The possibility that we're _not_, and have all of those little details in common? It's – it's just-"

"-highly improbable?" Gigi cut in drily. _She sounds more like Dad then I do._

"Yes!" Lydia shouted excitedly. "Yes! Do you have the picture?"

"What?!" Gigi exclaimed.

"The picture of your mum? I brought my picture of my Dad. I'll get it!" Lydia raced to her bag, and began tearing through her duffle, leaving a monsoon of fabric and shoes in her wake.

Gigi's lips curled upward, bemused, as she watched the tornado that was Lydia Hooper tear through the cabin. _She might really be my sister simply based on her similarities to Dad._ She wasn't even sure she needed the picture to prove anything, now.

Almost in a dreamlike state, Gigi returned to her own neatly packed, impeccably tidy suitcase.

_Open suitcase, top right corner, pocket for passport and identification, money, and The Picture_.

She hid it from her father. He'd been furious when he found out that Uncle John had given it to her. But he'd let her keep it. She always hid it, because she was never quite sure if he'd change his mind.

She unzipped the secret pocket and pulled out the picture of her mother – a petite, brunette woman, with shiny hair in a loose up-do, and an off-the-shoulder white dress that complemented her rosy complexion. Her dark brown eyes were glittering, and she smiled at the camera with a quiet serenity that Gigi was certain her mother must possess. After all, Gigi had very little of the overly confident energy her father always exuded. She always thought she must take after her mother.

Sighing, she turned to face Lydia, and clutched her prized possession to her chest.

* * *

_Bingo_.

Lydia grinned as she saw the tell-tale peek of the worn cardstock peep out from her favorite copy of _Matilda_. She very carefully slid the photograph from between the pages, and stared at it for a moment, though she didn't need to – she'd already memorized everything about her father.

He was a handsome man. High cheekbones, ivory skin, dark, curly hair, startling blue-grey eyes. He stared at the camera with a blank expression on his face, but the corners of his lips and the crinkle of skin near the corners of his eyes gave away his happiness. Lydia had always fantasized that her father was more like her – mathematically minded, always seeking science, excitable – how many times had her mother laughed and gently told her to _calm down_ because she was far too into the passion of the moment?

She gripped the edges of the photo tightly and turned to face Gigi.

* * *

Three long steps, and the girls met each other in the center of the room. Breathless, biting lips, clutching half-photos, palms sweaty –

"On the count of three?" Lydia whispered.

"On three," Gigi agreed.

"One…" _Mothers – a Mum -soup when I'm sick – chats about friends – picking out clothes – wearing her lipstick – trying on her heels – hugs – oh, to be hugged by a mother! _

"Two…" _Fathers – a Dad – less talk of __**feelings**__– taking me to work – helping me with homework – a sharked joke - a smile of approval – oh, to have the admiration of a father!_

"Three!"

* * *

**Please review, if you have time. :)**

**I hope that the girls' personalities and backgrounds weren't too confusing. I think in the next chapter we'll fall into more of an easy rhythm with them, and it will be easier to tell them apart. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Revelations, Large and Small

**UPDATED 7/7/14 - Please read this chapter again before going on to Chapter 4. Sorry & thanks!**

**Hello everyone!**

**So, thank you very much for your reviews and follows and favorites. I take them seriously and do try to respond to all of them.**

**Black Night - yay! Welcome! Glad to have you reading another one of my stories. Thanks for the review! :)**

**Also, this next chapter does still follow the movie pretty closely. I'm going to start changing things up a bit once the girls officially switch and make it back to their parents...which will begin happening in the next chapter! Yay! :)**

**Broken Record Time: I do not own Sherlock, The Parent Trap, or any of the quotes or pop culture I reference. (There is a reference to both the TV shows Psych and Monk in this chapter...don't own those either. On a side note, I seem to have a type when it comes to TV shows I enjoy...and they all involve a brilliant but socially inept crime-solver partnered with a more down-to-earth, hilariously witty/sassy assistant. That is all.)**

**Thank you to OpalSkyDivineLove for being my guinea pig and previewing chapters/ideas for me. :)**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Revelations, Large and Small

_"Our lives are made in these small hours – _

_these little wonders – _

_these twists and turns of fate."_

– Rob Thomas, "Little Wonders"

* * *

_ Molly Hooper is on drugs._

_Traces of whatever Moran knocked her out with are lingering in her system, and it has made her soundly loopy - because when she does come to, hours and hours after being rushed to the hospital and treated for hypothermia, she's bolder than usual, and confused, and she makes no qualms about asking John and Greg exactly where the great clot that is Sherlock, is, at the moment, and why he is not at her bedside in the hospital._

_"Because…." she leans forward just a bit, squinting up at them, and she feels a bit…swimmy… "because I count. I mmmmattered most." She grins, lopsidedly, and remembers the days he said those words - the day before his death, and the day after his resurrection. She is pushed back against the bed, a concerned look passing between John and Greg, and she giggles a little. "I think he likes me," she says to no one in particular, "and I think that's a bit…" her voice lowers, and she raise her eyebrows at Greg, in an attempt to look fetching – "dangerous."_

_She does, however, have some moments of clarity that come and go, and has the wherewithal to ask what exactly has happened, and where she was, and why the thought of dry skeletons suddenly terrifies her._

_Such things are quickly, kindly revealed, and then the lot of them begin discussing other, happier things, for Molly's sake. They are in the middle of a polite debate about who made the better Bond, when a muffled 'pop' sounds from somewhere far below them and to the east, and the room shakes slightly, and dust is shaken from the ceiling fixtures._

_It takes Sherlock less than three seconds to appear in the doorway._

_"There you are, Sherrrrlock!" Molly scolds, frowning, and slurring her words a bit. Even recovering, though, she's thinking things through, and her brow furrows intensely. "Was that…the…cadaver room?" _

_"Small explosion. Just a distraction, courtesy of Moran. His game is falling apart, now. Evacuation is still necessary, however," and he gives Lestrade a pointed look, which causes the man to swear and run out of the room to help speed things along._

_And then, to John's surprise, Sherlock crosses the room, scoops Molly up in his arms, and tells her to take the drip for her IV. She obliges, blushing and smiling a close-lipped, pleased little smile. John grabs her chart and an extra blanket and follows them, struggling to keep up._

_The three of them make their way through the hallways, now crowded with people, and Sherlock presses through, keeping John in his peripheral vision, holding Molly close - not trusting anyone else with her. His brother has a car waiting, and she will be relocated to somewhere safer, and much more private._

_To his consternation, she is still quite a bit bolder than usual from the drugs._

_"You like me," she says quietly, leaning her head lazily on his shoulder, her breath on his neck, lips dangerously close to his skin. "What kind of like is it, though? Do…you…want to kiss me?"_

_And he can tell that she really wants to kiss him – in fact, she has thought of nothing else for the past five minutes – and to his great consternation – his heart rate increases both at that thought and at the sudden soft, fluttering pressure of her lips on his neck, and he frowns. He doesn't have time for this – he's not sure if he ever will. And she's safe, and that relieves him enormously - but he still has a game to win._

_So, with mild impatience at the ridiculousness of the situation he's found himself in, he says what has always been the truth, in the past. "You have always been a rhetorical question. And the unspoken answer has always been a resounding no." _

_Which he has always believed to be the truth, but even as he says it, he realizes that he wouldn't be here – carrying her through a crowded hospital, asking his brother for help with her protection – if his answer was a resounding no. So maybe…not so much, the truth._

_She says nothing for a moment, and he is glad for her silence, even though he may have hurt her, because his heart is pounding and the crush of evacuating people around them and her lips so close to his own is distracting, at best, and…appealing and…attractive, at worst._

_And then - "Well. Usually the hero gets a kiss for the rescue of the fair lady. Don't you want your kiss?" _

_He says nothing, but that doesn't stop her._

_"Hmm. I think - you want to kiss me?" She asks softly, and he realizes with a start that she's been taking his pulse – one arm, clasped around his neck, her fingers brushing his pulse point, even as her lips nuzzled drowsily into that soft spot near the nape of his neck. Even drugged, she is a clever, clever girl, and he growls in frustration._

_"I-" he begins, frowning in mild consternation at the situation he's in - but then he makes the mistake of looking down at her. _

_She is looking up at him, with brown eyes wide and a bit glassy, and a small, knowing smile on her lips, which are…perfectly rosy, and decidedly kissable at the moment._

_He sighs, exasperated, and continues on through the throngs of people. They're still a floor and a hallway away from an exit. _

_But a few moments later, he can tell she's still thinking of a kiss - _

_And it's an amalgamation of bad timing – Sherlock lifts Molly up and out of the way of a particularly grabby child in the hallway, and is accidentally pushed just a bit by the parent tugging the child along, and he is just thinking that perhaps he should just kiss her to prove to the both of them that what he feels is just the passing attraction brought on by rescue and adrenaline – surely, if he did kiss her, he'd be reminded of how repulsive this whole idea of…physical affection was – and Molly had moved her head – her lips, so close - and suddenly – the distance between them closes and his lips are pressed against hers, though he's not sure if it's by his design, or hers._

_He doesn't immediately pull away._

_She is surprised herself, and Sherlock is fully intending to make the 'See, there? Nothing!' speech after he pulls away - but though she is frozen in surprise for half a second, she soon responds with gentle enthusiasm._

_And to his chagrin, that's all Sherlock needs. He is suddenly overwhelmed with sensory input and new data and an acuity of the senses that usually only accompanies the very height of danger, and he has the overwhelming urge to do this again – repeatedly – and his grip tightens around her, and he returns the kiss. _

_A few moments later, she pulls away, leaving both of them breathless and surprised and stone still, as people move and surge around them. John is standing beside them, completely and utterly speechless, blinking and frowning at the whole thing, looking a bit like a clockwork man as his head jerks back and forth, looking between the two of them._

_"See? Yooouuu….did want to kiss me." She says after a moment, triumphant, stroking the back of his neck affectionately with one hand and poking him in the chest with the other. "You…like me. You maybe even…" she giggled – "love me."_

_A pause, and then, softly – "Thank you for saving my life."_

_And it reminds him that she is recovering, and they are all still in some modicum of danger, and he frowns. _

_This was foolish. _

_This hasn't changed anything. _

* * *

_11 years later_

_June_

_London, England_

"Sherlock." John raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in front of his chest, thoroughly exasperated. "You realize that she won't be home for nearly four weeks, still."

He should have known better than to agree to go shopping with Sherlock for a _welcome home present_ for Genevieve, especially after the Great Present Disaster of Gigi's eighth birthday, which resulted in the banishment of Sherlock from several local shops - and from Harrod's to boot.

Really, though, it was his own fault - Sherlock may have not even gotten the idea to purchase a gift if he hadn't noticed the CD John had purchased for her, tucked in John's jacket pocket last night.

He always had to one-up John.

And so they'd already been to department stores, medical supply stores, laboratory equipment supply stores (was that what they were called? John wasn't sure), and several street-carts throughout the city, and had bought nothing. Well, nothing for Gigi. _Sherlock_ had come across several things he suddenly remembered he needed at all of the stores. (Several types of perfume, at the department store – for a flammability experiment; a new face shield at the medical supply store, because the last flammability experiment had partially melted the last one; and a new beaker stand, for similar reasons.)

And though Sherlock always knew exactly what he wanted when shopping for himself - when shopping for a gift for his daughter, Sherlock was often more distractable and demanding than she was. When she was three.

John had spent the majority of the day picking up random objects from various shops and placing them back on the shelves after Sherlock discarded them carelessly, dismissing them as 'not good' or 'boring' or '_obvious_'.

Okay – so even three-year-old Gigi had never been as distractable and demanding as her grown father.

John supposed he should be eternally grateful that his good-natured niece hadn't adopted too many of her father's eccentricities.

Which brought his thoughts back round to the present moment.

"Mmm," Sherlock grunted in reply to John's earlier statement, squatting down near the counter at the florists so that he was eye-level with the vases on display. He peered intently through them.

John continued, patience wearing thin. "And so any flowers you buy now will be dead by the time she-"

"_Obviously_, John. I was simply gathering data on the various flora available at this particular shop…but we certainly won't be purchasing her a gift from _this _establishment." Sherlock straightened, a smug, triumphant smile playing on his lips.

John frowned. He knew that look. That look meant –

"Call Lestrade," Sherlock muttered under his breath. And then -

"Excuse me," Sherlock called to the girl behind the counter, feigning politeness.

John quelled an eye-roll and a groan and sent a text to Lestrade, rapid-fire. He prayed the man had a unit nearby.

"Yessir?" She looked up expectantly.

"Miss…Greta, yes, I see your nametag there. You worked late last night?"

She frowned. "How did-"

"Inconsequential. And obvious. Also – boyfriend problems?"

Her mouth dropped open, and John felt humiliated for her, until –

"Mmm…although I agree that _Artemia salina_ (commonly known as the brine shrimp, or, the more vulgar _sea monkey_, John) makes a perfectly ridiculous anniversary gift, it is hardly worth murdering one's significant other over. Ending the relationship would have been much less mes-"

And then John got a face full of water, as Sherlock had sensed the girls' retribution and smoothly side-stepped before she'd flung a very large vase at the two of them. She then, quite predictably, made a run for it.

John sputtered, and wiped the water from his face, and broke into a jog behind his best friend. "You couldn't have just baked a cake, could you?"

* * *

_Napa Valley, California_

Molly peered over the counter top, drumming her fingers against it and frowning at her current enemy - the lopsided mess in front of her.

This was, as of yet, her fourth attempt at making that fancy bread Mary made, that Lydia loved and often devoured.

She sighed. Cakes and pies were her specialty, although Mary's were still just a bit better (everything Mary made was just a _bit_ better), and so Mary was named the main cook in the household by way of a five-year-old Lydia's brutal honesty. (Thankfully, as she'd grown, Lydia had learned to temper it.) Bread, however – Molly had never quite mastered the rolling, kneading, and rising time needed for baking bread.

But she was determined to do this small thing for her daughter – make her a welcome home dinner. By herself.

She'd also planned on renting a few of their favorite older movies for Lydia's return a few weeks from now, and had planned a mother-daughter night.

She had something important to discuss with her daughter, after all.

And so she practiced – both the conversation, and the bread.

"Ah," Mary said, running her fingers through her short blonde hair and wrinkling her nose, sniffing, as she entered the kitchen, "maybe…fifth time's the charm, then?"

Molly rolled her eyes good-naturedly at her friend.

At least the cake would turn out right. _That_ much she was certain of.

* * *

_Camp Walden, Virginia_

The photographs had matched. Perfectly, clearly, totally - and it had changed _everything_.

Lydia's mouth had fallen open, then closed quickly with a self-satisfied little smile, and Gigi's eyes had pricked with tears.

Gigi wiped them away quickly. "So…if – if _your_ mum is _my_ mum, and _my_ dad is _your_ dad – then – then…we're like – _sisters_."

Lydia cleared her throat and wiped her own eyes, still staring at the two picture pieces made whole. "Gigi…we're not _like_ anything – we're definitely _twins._"

And both girls threw their arms around each other and held tightly to the other half of themselves that they hadn't even known was missing.

* * *

"So," Lydia sighed, and grinned, and fell back on her pillow, as the two new-found sisters continued getting to know one another. "My dad is a _consulting_ detective for the New Scotland Yard? That – that is _so awesome_."

"Yeah, only one in the world, he says, and totally proud of it."

"Well…not the only one. But he's probably the best." Lydia said, absentmindedly brushing an ant off of her sweater.

"What? What do you mean?" Gigi asked, confused.

"Well, we have at least two in California. I read about them in the paper sometimes. Even on the news, occasionally. There's this OCD guy who used to a be a cop in San Francisco, and another guy who claims to be psychic in Santa Barbara but really I just think he's really good at observing stuff. Mum always gets a little bit annoyed whenever I get too into that stuff. Says it's not appropriate for a girl my age to be this obsessed with crime. But she still lets me read up on it, now and then. And Mary sneaks me stories, now and then. Now I'm thinking she was testy because she was worried I might go searching for certain _other_ consulting detectives in the world."

"Oh. Well…" Gigi giggled. "Uncle John does have a blog, so you might've found him. Dad had one too, but he took it down a long time ago. And...I think he is the best. At what he does, I mean. He really is brilliant. And…he's really, really, lovely most of the time. I mean, he does all the sorts of things Dads do, I guess – buys me birthday presents and lets me eat ice cream too often and takes me to work occasionally and avoids talking about feelings like the plague. But he can go away for days on end with Uncle John and then I have to stay with Mrs. Hudson, which is fine, but gets a bit boring sometimes. She's a nice lady – like a – grandmum, sort of – but I'm not allowed to call her that – and Dad says I'm not quite ready to go out on the days long cases. He gets all stiff and strange and funny and I can tell he's trying to be protective without seeming…protective." Gigi sat cross-legged on the end of Lydia's bed, admiring the job they'd done of patching their half-pictures together against the wall.

Lydia propped herself up on her elbows, and raised one eyebrow at her sister. "So you're telling me you get to go _out on cases_ sometimes?! Way cool!"

Gigi blushed. "Well, yeah. Little ones, that only take him a few hours to solve. But it's always like a sort of …lesson, you know? He's always trying to _teach_ me things. _How did you know she was a teacher, Genevieve? How did he steal the purse, Genevieve? What did they eat for breakfast, Genevieve? Look at her fingernails – look at his boots_ – it just gets a bit tiring, is all. And sometimes it's a lot of pressure, though he doesn't _mean _it to be. He just gets a little too…excited," she sighed. "But Uncle John always does a good job of balancing him out. Uncle John's the one who makes sure I eat three meals a day, even when I don't want to – I suppose that's one thing I inherited from Dad, was my lack of appetite – he doesn't eat much - and Uncle John makes sure I have clean clothes and clean my room and do my homework and such. Well, he and Mrs. Hudson. Dad buys me the clothes, of course, but I don't think he's ever even _seen_ a washing machine. And he's funny. He makes a lot of good jokes. Although," she added thoughtfully, "I'm not certain he always means them to be jokes. But Dad and I have a good chuckle because of him, no matter."

Lydia's grin grew wider. "That sounds so amazing. I would _love_ to go out on cases. I bet I'd be good at it."

"I'm certain you would," Gigi agreed modestly. "You are a lot like him. Dad, I mean. You just…think, a bit, like him. Science-y. And you're not…as sensitive as I am, I don't think. You'd probably be a lot better at _observing_ than I am. I mean, look at the way you used math and physics to earn the high score in archery."

"Will you teach me? Deductions, I mean?" Lydia asked eagerly.

Gigi shrugged, and blushed again. "Sure. Why not?"

* * *

"I'm going to say – that she's adopted – she's from – the southeast – she owns a cat – aaaaand – she's going to pick the green Popsicle. No, the red! No…green." Lydia frowned as the girl the two sisters were observing chose a purple Popsicle. "This is harder than it seems," she admitted grumpily.

Gigi smiled encouragingly. "No, you're already better than I am. I saw the southeast and the cat, but how did you know she was adopted?"

Lydia sighed. "I overheard her when she walked by a few minutes ago. That girl – there-" she nodded to another camper – "is her sister. Her sister's accent is true Southern – the twang. That girl's accent is southern, but not as much. She still has a little bit of a nasally tone. That's north. Since _her_ accent is the one that's changing, _she_ moved. Why would _she_ move if her sister didn't? Not everyone has a secret twin halfway across the world. I went with adopted."

Gigi nodded. "Okay then. You've officially surpassed your teacher. Nothing more I can do, here."

Lydia nudged her shoulder playfully. "Puh-leeze. You can always tell me more about our dad!"

"Or _you_ could tell me more about our mum!" Protested Gigi, giggling. "She's seriously the head of a _morgue_?"

"No, she's the head of _pathology_. Which means she does work in both the morgue and the lab. She wrote some major paper on soft tissue preservation and regeneration and they basically handed her the job. Everyone loves her, too. Whenever I go in to visit her, everyone is always gushing about what a pleasure she is to work with and other crap like that." Lydia stuck out her tongue. "I think they're just trying to get promoted."

After walking for a few moments, she amended her analysis. "But they do really like her. And she works a lot, but she always makes sure to take the weekends off to spend time with me. We like to watch old movies together and eat lots of popcorn. We also like to visit cemeteries."

"Cemeteries?"

"Yeah. My mum…our mum…she's a little…weird. Like our Dad, sounds, really. She likes working with the dead on a daily basis, you know what I mean? And it's cool, because she has this cast-iron stomach. She can dissect corpses without any issues, you know? And she's really smart, and nice, and…we go there and she always finds an old abandoned grave, and cleans it up a little, and we talk about them, and make up stories about their lives. There are some really pretty ones. Cemeteries. And…" Lydia paused, a strange half-smile on her face.

"And…?" Gigi pressed, as the two girls grabbed their own popsicles and made their way back to the isolation cabin. Although they were friends (_sisters!_) now, they still had a sentence to serve. Not that they minded, now.

"I totally just remembered that I might know part of their story!" Lydia squealed after a few moments of lip-biting and intense concentration.

"Really? Like – how they got together? Or-" Gigi asked.

"Yes! Once, when I was little – five, or six, I think - I kept pestering Mum about Dad, and she gave me the picture, but I wouldn't stop asking…and Mum's friend Mary – she lives with us, and works as a nurse at the same hospital as Mum, and - and kind of…runs the house, for her, during the week – she sat me down one day when mum wasn't home and told me one of the few stories she knows about Mum and Dad, about how Dad rescued Mum from a this creepy old tomb after she was kidnapped. And it makes sense now, why he'd have rescued her, being a consulting detective and all. After awhile I thought she'd just made it up to appease me, but what if it's really true? It could be now!" Lydia exclaimed excitedly.

"Well, tell me the story!" Gigi demanded.

"Right. She said, after he rescued her – mum was a bit out of it and kissed him, but she didn't remember it, later, - the kiss, I mean - and - it was like – he wouldn't leave her alone. Kept coming around the hospital, kept showing up in her apartment, kept being all – awkward. And mum was confused, because they were friends, before, and he was never interested in her, even though she was _totally_ into him, and he was confusing her. And Mary said Mum told her that one day, Mum had had enough, and asked him what he was _doing_, and he said "Isn't it _painfully_ obvious?"…" there, Lydia started laughing to herself, as Gigi opened the door to their cabin and they sat cross-legged on the floor, finishing their Popsicle.

"Well," Lydia continued, slurping on her Popsicle - "he said 'Isn't it painfully obvious?, and Mum said, 'Well, I'm getting the painful part, yes – but it's not obvious to me.' And then he got all frustrated and said 'Well that makes two of us!' Or something. And then apparently mum realized that he loved her because he was cranky, and he didn't even know what he was doing, and she could tell he…heh…what's so funny?"

Gigi was wiping tears from her eyes and laughing. "That! It's – it's so perfect! That story _has _to be true. Because - it's Dad! He gets cranky when he…" she wheezed, and collected herself – "when he's worried, or particularly…struck by…feelings. He told me once, when he was in a generous mood, that he just doesn't like them sneaking up on him. But he's better at showing them now _without_ getting too cranky. Or maybe I'm just better at seeing them. Mum…she must have been good at seeing them. At understanding him."

Lydia sighed. "Yes. She still is. Good at reading people, I mean. She's always noticing when I'm upset about something. It's annoying. I mean, it's nice that she's always there to talk to, but sometimes I don't want to talk about it, you know? I just want to…think about it. By myself. And she's really…touchy. I love her, but it totally grosses me out when she tries to lick her thumb and rub some imaginary dirt clod off my face or something."

Gigi giggled. "You…are _so_ much like Dad."

"And you're - a lot like Mum. It's so _weird. _I wish – I wish you could meet her. And I wish I could meet Dad."

Gigi sobered, and crinkled the wrapper to her now-finished Popsicle in her hand. "Me too," she said seriously.

Both girls sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

"You know what's weird?" Gigi said softly. "Neither one of our parents ever got married again. I mean – I don't think that's weird for Dad – he's never even looked at another woman, as far as I know – and whenever I asked about it, he'd always tell me, matter-of-fact, that I was the only girl in his life," Gigi smiled at the memory. "But it sounds like Mum is more on the normal side, in the relationship department. Has Mum ever gotten close to getting remarried?"

"Never," Lydia said firmly. "She's all work and me and Mary. No men. I mean, she's gone on a few dates, but always comes home and basically tells me that she remembers why she avoided dating in the first place."

Both girls were silent again, and then – suddenly – Lydia lept up, Popsicle wrapper abandoned, and began pacing the room. "I have an idea! A brilliant, amazing – oh, I am a _genius!_"

Gigi sat back, startled.

"I'm_ serious_. I am a _genius_," Lydia assured her, grinning.

"What?" Gigi asked, taking Lydia's wrapper and getting up to throw them both away.

"Come on, Gigi. You want to know what Mum is like, right? And I'm _dying_ to meet my brilliant detective of a Dad. So, what I'm thinking, is – we _can_ totally meet them -" Lydia was biting her lip and grinning mischievously.

"How would we do that?" Gigi interrupted, returning to her spot on the floor, standing and nervously picking at her blouse. If she knew one thing, it was that her father was _not_ a fan of change. It might take him _ages _to adjust to the idea of regularly communicating with his ex-wife and second daughter, if he ever adjusted at all.

"Gigi… _don't_ freak out on me, okay? We could _switch_ _places_."

Gigi sat down with a thunk as Lydia's words set in. "Switch _places_? You mean – you'd - go back to London to be with Dad, and I'd…go to California, to meet Mum?"

"Yes!" Lydia cried, and began rubbing her hands together in excitement. "Yes! We could totally pull it off, Gigi – we're twins, after all!"

"Lydia." Gigi said seriously, frowning at her sister. "We are totally, completely, one-hundred-percent different. We're _opposites_. I mean-"

"What's the problem? We're both smart. Yes, you _are_ smart, Gigi Holmes. You can teach _me_ to be _you_, and I can teach _you_ to be _me_. Look – I can do _you_ already."

And Lydia pulled her hair behind her in a mock braided up-do, and straightened her back, and, in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Gigi's British accent, said – "You want to know the _real_ difference between us? I have _class_ and you _don't_."

Gigi laughed, incredulous. "I get the feeling you've done that before."

Lydia shrugged, dropping her hands to her sides. "Yeah, well, I mean – we just started out fighting. Typical of sisters, right? But seriously – _please_, Gigi. We can do this. I've _got_ to meet my Dad."

Gigi suppressed a smile. "Well…you do realize, if we switch…well…sooner or later, they'll _have_ to unswitch us."

Lydia grinned mischievously. "And they'll have to meet again. Face to face."

"After all this time apart…" Gigi said, her stomach pricking nervously with both excitement and trepidation at the thought of her Dad meeting her Mum again…and…and really, the idea of _herself_ meeting her Mum!

"Yeah! Oh, Gigi…we could meet our parents, and learn about them – and – and – there's even the possibility that we could get them back together! I mean, _think_ about it – they're both a little loopy, they're both brilliant, they compliment each other – Mum with her _feeling_, and Dad with his _thinking_ – just like we sort of compliment each other, now - and we could do this!"

Gigi allowed a small smile to form on her face. She _did_ want to meet her mum…but… "But we don't even know why they split up in the first place. I mean, I would love for them to get back together, and _we _do get along great, now, but-"

"Gigi, this is _brilliant!_ We can do this! We'll talk to our respective inside men and women – Uncle John and Mrs. Houston-"

"Hudson," Gigi corrected.

"-whatever, and Mary, and find out what went wrong, and what they liked about each other in the first place, and what they still have in common – and just…nudge them in the right direction! And all the while, _you_ can get to know Mum, and _I_ can get to know Dad! We'll win them over, be all charming…when we finally tell them we've switched on them, they'll _have_ to meet to change us back, and meet, and of course nothing is guaranteed – but if _neither_ of them has even come close to remarrying there's still the chance -" Lydia was pacing the room now, drawing plans in the air with her hands. She was absolutely determined that this should work. Why wouldn't it?

"But-" Gigi was still sitting back on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her, face a strange mixture of amazement and horror.

"You'll need to cut your hair, of course."

"_My hair?!" _Gigi protested, and a hand went to touch it protectively.

"Of course! I can't go to camp with shoulder-length hair and come back with it down to my butt! Hair doesn't grow that fast! And you'll have to stop talking so perfectly all the time. And I guess I'll have to learn to speak with more of a British accent. _Morning, Dad,_" Lydia tried out again, in a believable accent. "I mean, Mum still has an accent, but I've lived in California my whole life, so I'll have to work on it a little."

"A bit," Gigi corrected, smiling, beginning to get caught up in the excitement of the switch-up.

"What?"

"You'll have to work on it a _bit_. We use _bit_ more than _little_."

"Great! And you'll have to teach me everything about Dad, and I'll teach you everything about Mum, and our houses, and our schedules, and…"

And as Lydia went more and more in depth with her plans, Gigi believed more and more that it _just might work_.

* * *

"Who's this?" Lydia asked, looking carefully over the few photographs Gigi had brought with them to the mess hall.

"Uncle John - John Watson. He's an ex-army doctor. Not actually Dad's brother, of course. His best friend. He lives with us. I mean, he lives in 221C. I took his old room, apparently. He teases me about it. Apparently 221C is a bit damp. That – this-" Gigi continued, showing her a photograph of Mycroft, "is Uncle Mycroft. He really _is_ Dad's brother. We have to watch out for him. He doesn't come around terribly often, but he's the one who'll be hardest to fool."

"Not Dad?" Lydia asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ha. No. I mean, he'll probably notice you've – I mean, that _I've_ changed – but as long as you always hug and kiss him before going to bed, and don't suddenly start speaking in your American accent, and if you blame any other changes in interest or personality on _growing up_, well – he should accept that. He always gets a little awkward when it comes to _growing up_. Tries to start talking about chemicals and hormones and then it's almost like he's trying to explain to himself what's going on, and he forgets about whatever it was you were talking about a moment before."

"I'll remember that," Lydia smiled, and pointed at another picture. "Who's that?"

"Mrs. Hudson. She's the landlady. I mean, she owns 221 Baker Street, and she makes us tea and biscuits – which you call cookies, by the way, but you'll need to start calling them biscuits – and all sorts of things. She's _not_ a housekeep, she's insistent of that-"

"So what do we call her?"

"Mrs. Hudson." Gigi stated, as though it was obvious.

Lydia laughed. "Right. Obviously."

* * *

"This is our living room," Lydia stated, pointing with a stick to the outline of the house she'd drawn in the dirt. "And this is the dining room. We never eat in there, though, except for Thanksgiving and Christmas and of course, our birthdays, and sometimes other special occasions. This is Mum's room, and my – your – our bedroom. This is Mary's room. Her room is off-limits. We're not allowed in there – she says it's the only place in the house that's totally private and one-hundred-percent hers. Not even Toby can get in there. But you can always knock on her door, if you need anything. She's really nice, and a great listener. And fun. But she'll take Mum's side over everything – every, single thing – so you can complain to her all you want and she won't tell Mum, but she also won't help you change Mum's mind. 'Kay?"

* * *

"I almost forgot!" Gigi sat upright in bed, a few days later, right after they'd gone to sleep.

"What?" Lydia mumbled sleepily.

"The handshake!"

"What handshake?" Lydia yawned.

"Uncle John. He'll pick you up from the airport. He…he and I have a handshake. A special one. It's...it's nothing." She blushed.

Lydia grinned and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and rearranging the mess of hair around her head before rolling over and tugging the blankets back up around her shoulders. "Okay. You teach me the handshake. And I'll cut your hair."

"Oh," Gigi groaned, and flopped back onto her pillow. "I forgot about the hair, too. I can't believe I'm letting a ten year old cut my hair."

"Hey!" Lydia exclaimed, rolling over and grinning at her. "You sounded just like me, there."

Gigi returned the grin. "Well, I'm supposed to, aren't I?"

* * *

"Lydia," whispered Gigi, poking her cabin-mate and sister hesitantly with her finger, later that same night. There was very little moon that night, and it was extremely dark in the cabin. "_Lydia_," she hissed again, voice strained.

"Mmmmm." Lydia groaned, pulling her pillow over her head. She was just in the middle of a fascinating dream about chasing zombies with her newfound father, and she did _not _want to be interrupted.

"Lydia, we'll have to call it all off, I _swear_, if you don't wake up-"

Lydia heard the worry in Gigi's voice, and grudgingly pulled herself out of the dream world. "What?" she said thickly, rubbing her eyes with one hand and scooting herself over so that her sister could slide into the bed next to her. "What's the problem? Forget a handshake again? Because I'm pretty sure I can learn it. We still have one whole week-"

"Unless you can learn how to play the violin in a _whole week_, that won't help us, Lydia." Gigi sat next to her, back against the headboard, her arms wrapped fretfully around her legs, her chin resting on her knees.

Lydia was wide awake, now. "You play the violin?"

"Yes."

_Goodness, but she could sound forlorn_, thought Lydia. "Well?"

Gigi hesitated.

"Now is _not_ the time to be modest, Genevieve Violet Holmes," Lydia said sternly. "Do you play well?"

Gigi nodded.

Lydia sighed. "'Well', as in… 'my closest family and friends enjoy listening to me play', or 'well', as in – 'strangers on the street would stop and listen'?"

Gigi hesitated again, but the small smile that crept up her face gave her away.

Lydia groaned. "You play _that_ well?"

The two sat in silence for a few moments – Gigi fretting and bemoaning the potential loss of a brilliant plan and a chance to meet her mother, Lydia calmly reasoning through various scenarios in her head.

"What if I just don't feel like playing anymore? I mean, what if _you_ just come back from camp and don't feel like playing anymore?" Lydia asked, matter of fact. _It's so simple._

"No." Gigi dismissed the thought entirely, before Lydia had the chance to work up a good argument.

"What do you mean, _no_? People's tastes change. Maybe you just-"

"No," Gigi insisted. "No. This…the…violin, and music…they're just – really, really important to me, and Dad. I would never, ever just stop enjoying it."

_Wow…I've never heard her stand her ground so…firmly, before._ Lydia looked over at her sister. What little light there was in the cabin illuminated her pale face and hands – she looked almost as though she were floating there, in the air by her bed - but her expression was fierce. "It's really important to you guys," Lydia stated.

"Yes." Gigi confirmed. "Me…I mean…if I were to just stop loving music, or the violin…it would be like…if I were to stop loving Dad. And I would never do that."

Lydia nodded, understanding, and went back to thinking of a different solution. _Not switching is not an option. I am going to meet my father._

"Well, then. I obviously have to have an accident," she announced a few minutes later.

"_What_?!" hissed Gigi.

"I mean…I was hoping to not _actually_ have to hurt myself. But Uncle John is a doctor, right? So he'd be able to tell…" Lydia looked uncertain, hopeful, at Gigi.

Gigi sighed and nodded, seeing where she was going with the deception. "He and Dad could both probably tell if you just wrapped your wrist and faked an injury. But you _can't_ hurt yourself, Lydia. It's not worth it. You can't-"

"Calm down!" Lydia rolled her eyes, though it was probably hard for Gigi to tell in the dark. "I'm not going to, like, jump off of the roof or anything. I'm not even planning on _breaking_ anything. I just need to not be able to use a few of my fingers on one hand, right? So…I just need to conveniently injure my fingers. A few days before camp ends, to maximize the healing period, and the time of non-violin playing without seeming suspicious, of course. Hmmm…."

Lydia began rolling through ideas in her head.

_Cut myself at the woodshop? _No, she immediately dismissed – too much blood, and the chance she could really do some damage, there.

_Get stepped on?_ No – too hard to control the force on her foot. The horses at camp were too dangerous to try that. Even if Gigi did it, there was no way she control perfectly the amount of force she would exude to –

"You could always…" Gigi interrupted Lydia's thoughts, and then wrinkled her nose and stopped abruptly.

"What?" Lydia asked, looking sharply at her sister.

Gigi shook her head and bit her lip.

"What?" Lydia asked again, impatiently. _Gigi can really underestimate herself sometimes._

"When I was five, Dad accidentally let the door slam shut on my fingers." She eyed her sister over her knees.

Lydia thought about it for a moment, and nodded. "That would work. The screen doors here don't have safeties on them, to slow them down. We'll try it with some sticks, first…make sure they don't break in half, or anything. And I can always give us more time after they're healed by wincing and groaning and such when I go to pick up the violin…or anything like it, for that matter…no chores for a few weeks? Why yes, I do believe that's perfect!"

A yawn interrupted Lydia's mischevious grin, and stretched. "See, you've solved the problem. You didn't even need me." Playfully, she stretched and gave her sister a little shove with one hand. "Now go back to sleep. I need my beauty rest."

Gigi snorted, and Lydia reminded her, before Gigi could say anything smart – "And so do you. We are identical, you know."

* * *

And so, the rest of camp passed in a blur.

Lydia cut Gigi's hair, and Gigi taught Lydia Uncle John's special handshake - a firm grip, shake twice, slide to the fingertips transitioning to a dance-like spin for Gigi, and then a pull forward for what Gigi termed 'that awkward sort of man-hug men do where they pat each-others shoulders'.

They taught each other about their different dialects, their preferences, their schedules, special events, cases with Dad and weekends out with Mum, teaching each other everything their parents had taught them – standard self-defense, and how to properly bake a cake, and also things like how Gigi should sass Mum when she got to sappy over a movie and how Lydia should pay attention to Dad's moods and when in doubt, she could always squeeze his hand (_no more than a couple seconds, okay?_) and say 'it's okay, Dad'.

And the day before the last day of camp, Lydia conveniently got three of her left fingers trapped by the door of the mess-hall, and was told that she'd have to wrap them together to heal for at least two weeks.

* * *

The last day of camp arrived too soon.

As the sisters said good-bye in the midst of hundreds of girls organizing luggage and hugging and leaving, they repeated their last-minute instructions to each other.

"Okay – you're going to find out how Mum and Dad met, and how they fell in love, by pestering Mrs. Hudson and Uncle John – right?" Gigi asked Lydia.

Lydia nodded. "Right. And you're going to use Mary to find out the nitty-gritty on why they broke up."

_"Genevieve Holmes, your car is here!"_ An announcement blared through the loudspeaker.

"Well…looks like Uncle Mycroft sent a limo again," Gigi smiled at Lydia.

"He…he won't be in it, will he?" Lydia asked, nervous excitement playing about in her stomach.

"No, no. He took me to camp…and I don't care how much he loves me, he wouldn't do something like show up to pick me up just because he missed me. The limo will pick you up and take you to the airport. Uncle John will pick you up at the airport in London tomorrow morning. Remember the handshake," Gigi reminded her, biting her lip. "And give him…and Dad…and Mrs. Hudson…give them all a hug and a kiss, for me."

Lydia smiled. "And roll your eyes when Mum tries to kiss you for like, the seventh time when you get home."

"'Kay." Gigi grinned, and then threw her arms around Lydia, who returned the embrace excitedly. "Bye!"

"Bye!" Lydia answered, gathering her things and heading towards the limo.

"Good luck," whispered Gigi, crossing her fingers in anticipation.

* * *

Unbeknownst to the two sisters, after the counselor closed the door to the limo and tapped it smartly, signaling to the driver all was set – that particular counselor made her way to the break room, where she sent a message to her old employer.

Anthea received it moments later, and this time, having learnt her lesson the first time she made her emotions known, successfully suppressed the knowing grin building inside of her. "Sir," she said evenly, "the switch was made."

To her mild surprise, Mycroft allowed his own lips to curve upwards, in imitation of a small, smug smile. "Excellent."

Anthea paused. "Any further instructions?"

He sat back, and eyed her carefully. "No. I think we'll just let this one play itself out. Thank you, Anthea."

"Sir," she nodded, and refocused her attention on the device in her hands.

"And Anthea?" He added, after a moment.

"Yes sir?" She looked back up at him, and his smile was now one of genuine, if slightly strained, pleasure.

"In this instance, it would be…acceptable, for you to express your amusement of the current situation."

It took her about half a second to realize what he was implying. And when she realized it, she suppressed an eye-roll and allowed the grin she'd been quelling to burst forth. "Thank you, sir. It is…quite an amusing situation."

He smirked, and then was business once again. "Quite."

* * *

**As always, please review if you have the time.  
**

**The beginning flashback was a bit longer, and I know a bit strange/OOC for Molly, but I figure there's gotta be some sort of drug that makes you loopy like that, and I had too much fun writing it to change it. **

**I also tried to include snippets of Sherlock and Molly and their lives, too, because I was feeling a bit lonely for them. They will appear much more readily from now on - yay!**

**Thanks again. :)**


	4. Bait and Switch

**Hello everyone!**

**First, an apology. Summer craziness and summer laziness have both assaulted me, and so, I am behind on updates. *Shrugs sheepishly* Apparently, I am much better at maintaining a regular schedule during the school year. **

**Next - IMPORTANT! REVISION OF CHAPTERS 2 & 3:**

**Please re-read chapters 2 & 3 BEFORE reading this chapter. I was frustrated with both, and after some intense planning and discussion with my amazingly brilliant friend OpalSkyDivineLove, I have mapped out a lot of the rest of the story and added a bit of backstory/made some changes to chapters 2 & 3. **

**You will be confused if you read this chapter without re-reading the others.**

**Sorry about that! I have NEVER made such big changes to a story after beginning it, so I apologize, but it will make the story better in the long run, so I hope that you'll forgive me. :)**

**Black Night - thanks again for the lovely review! And yes...Sherlock will begin to be suspicious of "Gigi", even in this chapter - and Molly has to work up the guts to share her surprise with her daughter. ;) Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**As always, thank you to OpalSkyDivineLove for pre-reading and giving me great feedback. :)**

**Still don't own Sherlock or the Parent Trap or the Beatles. *sigh***

* * *

Bait and Switch

_"Little darlin' – I feel that ice is slowly melting_

_Little darlin' – it feels like years since it's been clear -"_

_- The Beatles, "Here Comes the Sun"_

_It has changed everything._

_Moriarty's game, played out posthumously by his right-hand man Moran, has changed everything. _

_For Sherlock._

_While attempting to delete the kiss, he's found that he much prefers replaying it in his mind. The…acuity of his mental faculties post-kiss (once he recovered from the shock of it, of course) was…improved. Incredibly so. _

_He decides he may be open to doing it again. The actual kissing bit. Not sure he wants anything more than that, at the moment – actually, he's quite certain he does not want anything more than that – married to his work, and all - but the kissing, he wouldn't mind trying again._

_Purely for scientific purposes, of course. _

_But even Sherlock – Sherlock, who has no understanding of human nature – knows that to snog Molly senseless without any sort of expectation of emotional or romantic attachment is Not Good. _

_And really…for all his desire for a __**kiss**__ – he really…would rather not have her angry with him. And really…he would rather not hurt her. _

_He's not as much of an idiot where feelings are concerned as he would have others believe. _

_He recognizes the fact that he cares deeply for Molly and her well-being, and he recognizes that this desire to kiss her is moving her out of that same realm of other people he cares deeply for – John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson – but…he's not sure where to put her now, or what to do with that tiny revelation._

_Okay – so he's still a blithering idiot where feelings are concerned. _

_But unfortunately – or fortunately – for him, apparently, Molly has not quite remembered the events that transpired at the hospital._

_When he goes to see her a few days later at the safe house Mycroft has provided for her, after Moran has been successfully stopped, he is fully prepared for the (most likely) blushing, stammering, awkward apology of her advances. And he is fully prepared to appear the smug, dashing hero again, reassuring her that it was quite all right, and in fact…perhaps…he could…kiss her again? On the cheek. Purely to reassure her._

_So he is surprised to find her up and about, fixing her own breakfast, humming along to the radio, and smiling warmly as she greets him, not an ounce of awkwardness or apology to be found. She appears to be quite recovered._

_He blinks in surprise, and frowns. This is not…this was not how it was supposed to go. Certainly, she doesn't feel that the kiss was acceptable? That they are…together, now? He nearly shudders at the thought._

_"Sherlock – would you like to join me? I can make some extra bacon, and eggs. Your brother certainly keeps this place well-stocked. And making you breakfast is the least I could do, after you saved my life. I'm really, truly…well…thankful. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes." She meets his gaze with a warm, sincere look of affection, and then continues. "Would - you like to join me? Since the case is over, I mean. You can eat again." Molly is placing food on plates and organizing the breakfast dishes and she doesn't look up again until the end of her speech, when she notices Sherlock looks decidedly confused._

_And he is. He is impressed, once again, at how well she knows him – though he shouldn't be, not really, after all this time – but he doesn't understand – she thinks the breakfast is a thank-you? She already…thanked him…at the hospital. Unless…_

_Molly misreads his confusion, though. "Oh, did you already eat? Well, of course you don't have to eat. I'm certainly hungry enough. The doctor Mycroft had here didn't let me eat much the past two days…wanted to monitor my reaction to that drug Moran knocked me out with. Not that I'd eat __**all**__ this food, of course…but…ha…"_

_…unless she doesn't remember. She doesn't remember the kiss. _

_"Molly," he says suddenly, ignoring her rambling about the amount of food she could or could not eat, and watching her carefully -"What…do you remember? About...before you arrived at the safe house?" If she remembers the kiss, she'll surely give herself away with the answer to that question._

_"What?" And she looks mildly disappointed, but not at all embarrassed or sheepish. "Oh. You want my statement, then? Because Mycroft's already sent…"_

_"No, no," Sherlock shakes his head emphatically and frowns. "You don't…remember what happened at the hospital?"_

_She blinks, and frowns, obviously trying to remember. "N…no. I…remember…feeling…happy? Or relieved? And…snow? No, I think that was dust... And…being carried to a car? But…sorry…I don't…I don't remember much of what happened at the hospital."_

_And Sherlock's face twitches, because this is most definitely an unanticipated occurrence. The drug should not have affected her memory this much, but he knows Molly, and she…she is not capable of being this deceptive, so she obviously simply does not remember. Perhaps the incident-specific amnesia is a post-traumatic stress related event? That means…_

_She looks concerned. "Should I remember, Sherlock?"_

_…That means that it would still be hidden there, somewhere, in her memory. Because surely…surely, said trauma came from the Moran incident, __**not**__ the kiss. And surely…kissing Sherlock Holmes was not something Molly Hooper would carelessly forget? _

_With a start, Sherlock realizes that she is standing in front of him now, her hand tentatively touching his arm. "Sherlock? Is there something I need to remember? About the hospital?"_

_And he realizes that he is being foolish. This is exactly what he needs – exactly the excuse he needs to move past this whole foolish mess of a thing. Everything can go back to the way it was – he and Molly are friends, and nothing more, and it is better that way. No need to kiss again, for scientific purposes or otherwise. Right? _

_"No. No," he shakes his head and reassures her, giving her a rare, kind smile. "Nothing. I am…happy you are safe. And well."_

_"Well…I have you to thank for that. So…thank you." She blushes as she smiles, and removes her hand from his arm, and her stomach growls loudly. "Oh…" she laughs a little. "Guess I should take care of that…are you hungry?"_

_He is frowning at the spot where her hand was resting on his arm, because it feels decidedly…empty, now. He feels…wrong, somehow. _

_He shakes his head. "No, thank you. I have…some loose ends to tie up."_

_"Oh. All right, then. Will…will I be able to go home soon? And back to work? Everything…back to normal?" She says 'normal' almost teasingly, like she knows nothing in her life will ever be normal with Sherlock around._

_He finds he likes that – the idea of her normal including him. His __**friendship, **__he reminds himself firmly._

_Sherlock meets her eyes. "Yes. Everything will be back to normal soon."_

* * *

_11 years later_

_July_

_London, England_

Lydia bit her lip, looking through the crowds, searching for her not-technically-an-uncle Uncle John Watson. She'd already found her bags at the luggage claim and she had to admit, for all her confidence in her brilliant plan, her heart was beating awfully hard. Her palms were sweating, and her stomach was clutching, and now her heart felt like it was trying some sort of escape maneuver from her chest.

She loved it.

_There – just around the family with matching T-shirts and the elderly couple_ – was Uncle John.

_Stay in character._

Smiling what she hoped was a very Gigi-like smile, she began waving her bandaged fingers timidly as she walked toward him, hauling her luggage behind her with her good hand.

When he saw her, his face broke into a grin that reached all the way to his eyes, and she caught him taking in her injured fingers, and her haircut- but he quickly refocused on her.

They stood staring, smiling lopsidedly at each other, for a long moment.

"Hey, kiddo," he said with a sort of gruff affection, breaking the silence, and offering her his hand.

_This is it. Deception Numero Uno._

Lydia's grin grew even wider as she took it, shook it twice firmly, and slid her fingertips to his as he gave her a little spin, right there in the airport, and then brought her in for a sort-of hug afterward.

Lydia found herself blushing into his cardigan, and spontaneously wrapped her arms fully around him for a proper hug, before kissing his cheek lightly and pulling away.

Because…not only had she been missing a Dad all this time…apparently, she'd also been missing an uncle who wears silly sweaters and spins her in airports.

_Besides…the hug and kiss…that would be a Gigi move, right? Right_.

"Hey, Uncle John," she replied, beaming.

He smiled at her, hands on her shoulders, taking in her new appearance, and then took her injured left hand in his own to inspect it.

Lydia drew in a breath as he studied the bruised, taped fingers on her left hand.

"And how did you manage this, Gigi?" He asked, frowning.

"Oh," Lydia answered lightly – "it was an accident. I was running after a friend, and she went into the mess hall, and I didn't catch the door fast enough, and it caught me instead. Smashed my fingers up a bit, but the nurse said they'd been fine in a week or two." She studied his expression and her hand twitched under his scrutiny. _Nailed the accent, Lydia. Awesome._

"Well," he said, and his smile returned as he dropped her hand and moved to gather up her luggage. "Looks like it's getting on well. Probably closer to a week, to heal, mmm? Which is a good thing, considering. And you cut your hair? At camp?"

"Do you like it?" Lydia asked, feigning nervousness, touching it self-consciously.

"Yeah." He nodded. "It…it looks good on you. Your Dad - " and he paused for a moment, and cleared his throat – "He'll…think it's more practical."

"Oh. Good. I know he's always saying it would be less of an inconvenience if it was shorter," Lydia said.

"Yeah, he does say that," John muttered, thinking. " – oh!" And he released her luggage, and tapped around his pockets, withdrawing a small wrapped gift. "I almost forgot – wanted to give you this before we get home to your Dad." He smiled at her again.

_He's as smiley as mum,_ thought Lydia. She smiled at him, and took the gift, and her hand hovered over the wrapping. "I can open it here, then?" She asked expectantly.

"Yeah, of course. Otherwise your Dad'll be not-so-subtly deducing how you liked his more than mine again, which we both know is bonkers." He rolled his eyes emphatically – good naturedly - for her.

She giggled and opened it quickly, eager to see what was inside.

It was a blank CD case. She was puzzled for a moment, and opened it, to see if perhaps he'd burned her a CD and forgot to label the outside.

Turned out to be a blank, _empty_ CD case.

Lydia looked up at John, slightly confused, and was surprised to find that his lips were pressed into a thin, angry line, and his brow was furrowed in confusion – then understanding.

"I can't _believe_ – the bloody – sorry, sorry Gigi – sorry - I can't…he…the absolute…" and John rubbed his hand over his face, and took the empty case from her, crinkling the paper with frustration in his hands before throwing it into the nearest rubbish bin. He blew one long, frustrated breath out his nose, and then shook his head again, and offered her a shrug and a smile. "Should've known," he muttered under his breath.

Lydia was still a bit confused, but gathered that something had happened to her gift. Gigi's gift. "It's…okay, Uncle John," she said, and patted his arm reassuringly. "What…happened?"

John snorted. "Your dear old _Dad_ did it again. Remember when you came home from your first camp?"

Lydia froze for a moment. They'd discussed a _lot_ at camp – even the camps they'd gone to in the past - but…not so much, everything that had happened after every camp. Lydia had the feeling she'd missed a lot of little scuffles between her Dad and her Uncle. Gigi had warned her about it…but she hadn't told her every detail of every one.

But her belated reassurances that she remembered turned out to be unnecessary, because he was already reminiscing, as he was walking again – "Your Dad stole my present – that book you wanted, what was it? The new McKay book? And replaced it with an old copy of Harry Potter. Said it wasn't fair for me to sneak presents to you. He wanted to see your reactions. To the gifts." He chuckled as he recalled the incident. "You took both of them and went into your room and opened them alone so he wouldn't see your reaction to _either_ of the gifts. He hasn't tried it since." He flashed her a proud grin.

_Thank you for that convenient piece of information_. Lydia silently thanked both God and her uncle.

John frowned. "Apparently he's forgotten that little incident. Probably deleted it." He snorted. By now they had reached the street, and he promptly hailed a cab. "Shall we?"

Lydia giggled, and took the arm he offered her. "We shall."

* * *

As they arrived at Baker Street, Lydia was practically bouncing with excitement.

Actually, she was bouncing.

"You're eager to get home," John observed, smiling.

Lydia immediately stopped. _Gigi doesn't bounce_. "I just…missed home. I'm happy to be back." She flashed him a timid smile.

"Well," he said, as the cabbie stopped in front of 221, "Go on up, then. I'll take care of your luggage. And just this once, I'll cover the cab fee." He gave her a teasing smile, and she found she wasn't acting when she smiled back.

"It's…great to be here, Uncle John. To be home. It's…really, really great."

Taking a breath, she opened the car door and fairly skipped up the steps and through the front door.

Inside, she looked around in wonder, doing her best to take everything in and commit it to memory – the stairs that led down, to Uncle John's rooms – 221 C, and the cheery door that led to Mrs. Hudson's rooms, and the stairs that led up, wooden and worn. She lay a hand on the banister, feeling the smooth gloss against her palm, and breathing in the scent of dust and sunlight and London air coming in through the still-open door behind her.

She moved to test the first step with her foot, and the creak of a door opening behind her startled her.

"Oh, Gigi, dear!" A voice crowed, and Lydia spun around to meet the landlady.

She was a small, thin, older woman, who obviously had a lot of spirit left in her wizened frame. Lydia could practically feel the woman's energy waves radiating off of her.

"You beautiful girl – oh!" The woman – _Mrs. Hudson_ - gasped, and her hands flew to cover her mouth. "You've cut your hair! What a pity! It was always…well, never mind," she backtracked, and sounded almost as though she were scolding herself. "It looks lovely, dear. It really does. I just suppose I'll miss that long hair of yours. But you're still the most beautiful girl in London. And just look at how you've grown!"

Mrs. Hudson then proceeded to cluck and pat at Lydia's shoulders and hair and cheeks, talking all the while about how much she was missed while she was away and how _the_ _boys_ (Lydia presumed she was talking about Uncle John and her father) had only had two decent cases to sustain them while she was away and how sorry she was that she wasn't able to get her a nice gift, because she'd had to replace the front door after her father…did something to it (her voice trailed off at the end, and Lydia wasn't quite sure what had happened to it, exactly) - but perhaps she'd like to stop by later for some tea and biscuits?

Lydia was smiling in a sort of awed admiration by the end of the woman's ministrations – she'd managed to get everything out in one breath. Realizing that Mrs. Hudson was looking for an answer, Lydia remembered Gigi's orders and quickly embraced the older woman and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Tea and biscuits sound perfectly lovely." For good measure, she added – "I…missed you."

It was the right thing to say.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes grew shiny and she blinked rapidly and patted Lydia on the cheek again. "Such a good girl you are, dear. And we've all missed you, too. But I've kept you from your father long enough. He'll be expecting you, now, of course, with that nasty eavesdropping habit of his." But the words were said with a motherly affection, and Lydia warmed to Mrs. Hudson.

_She'd not even met her father yet, and already – this was turning out to be the best idea she'd ever had._

* * *

He was waiting for her, with his back to the door, just as Gigi said he would be.

_Like he needs a moment to compose his features into something….calm and collected._

Her heart had never beaten harder in her short life.

When he turned to her as she entered the room and closed the door behind her, her breath caught in her throat.

_Older, now, than her picture of him – but still marvelously handsome, nearly unchanged – beautiful - save for a few more lines around the mouth and eyes, and…and oh – he's deducing her now!_

She stood very still for a moment, noting the minutest of expressions – _a small smile - pleasure, at seeing her, a slight furrowing of the brow - mild concern, at her fingers, a slight frown and…blinking, at her hair - _ flit across his face as he took in her appearance, her body language, her hair, her fingers – everything. And she did her best to appear at her most Gigi-like while at the same time, taking in everything around her.

_Smiley face bullet holes – fireplace and bookshelf – chairs and couch and kitchen and tiny lab and bedroom door and stairs and there, in the center of it all – her father – Sherlock Holmes. _

_Her father, who was now smiling at her, and it lifted her heart to a place where she was sure she could rise and fly, if she so desired._

"Hullo, Dad," she said softly, and smiled at him.

He closed the distance between them in a few long strides, and she felt his eyes take her in even more closely, and his voice was low when he returned her greeting.

"Who are you, now, and what have you done with my Genevieve?" He asked – but the words were said playfully, with a tinge of sadness and a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle affectionately, and Lydia knew that her changes in "Gigi's" appearance had affected him.

_Perfect_, she thought – just a tinge guilty. "Still the same girl, Dad. Same Gigi. Same Genevieve. Just – a bit older. Taller. You know-" she began to explain, but he took her injured fingers in her own, and frowned, gently inspecting them.

"Mmm. Caught in a screen door? You should be more careful, Genevieve. _Thankfully_ it's nothing serious…" He did not sound overly concerned.

Slightly awed and intimidated by his quick deduction he'd made about her fingers – _and glad that Gigi had told her he'd notice a fake injury_ – Lydia was glad when Uncle John chose that moment to knock on the door behind them.

"Open up then," he shouted, his voice muffled through the door. "I've got something to talk to you about, Sherlock, involving breaking into my flat again and stealing a certain CD, and a load of baggage for Gigi, besides. Gigi, help me out, here."

Sherlock dropped her hand and rolled his eyes. "I don't suppose we can just lock him out for the evening, can we?"

Lydia, reminding herself that she was Gigi, replied accordingly. "Dad," she said, scolding and smiling.

He returned the smile and opened the door for his friend as Lydia stepped out of the way. John came through, depositing the luggage on the floor inside the door and nudging Lydia's shoulder gently in way of greeting before turning a scowl on Sherlock.

Taking the empty CD case out of his pocket, he waved it in front of Sherlock's nose. "Care to explain this?"

Sherlock smiled. "Certainly. Since _my daughter_ has been away at a camp that certainly did not emphasize logical thought and deductions, however developmentally appropriate and beneficial it may have been, I decided that it would do her good to practice when she got home. One moment, please."

Lydia's nervous system was torn somewhere between anxious excitement and nauseous dread as her father left the room and her uncle gave her an exasperated shrug.

Sherlock returned a moment later, with two identically wrapped presents, one in each hand. They were both wrapped in a pale lavender paper – Gigi's favourite colour – and seemed indistinguishable, to look at. "Which is from me, and which is from John?"

"You've got to be kidding me," John muttered. "Sherlock, just -"

But Lydia interrupted as she licked her lips and looked uncertainly at her father. "May I…touch them?"

He grinned at her, shooting a triumphant look at John. "Of course. But you may not open them until you correctly deduce which present is from me, and which is from John, and explain the basis for your deductions."

Lydia began to raise an eyebrow, but remembered fiercely again that she was _Gigi_ – good, sweet Gigi – and so she salvaged her expression into something surprised but determined and picked up both packages from her father's hand.

Both were the shape of a CD case – it appeared he'd just wrapped two CD cases. She felt around the package edges, and yes – each of the gifts was a CD, wrapped. She smelled the wrapping on each gift, just in case – but nothing different about their scents.

Running her fingers along the cases again, she concluded that the CD cases were both the thicker, more durable kind bought in music stores, and not the flimsy kind bought en masse for burning CDs. She balanced the gifts in her hands, and then switched the gifts and balanced them again.

"One feels lighter," she announced, and set them down on the coffee table. "Be right back!"

And she ran to the stairs, and up to where Gigi described her room would be - _her room_ – and looked through the book case for some of Gigi's music. Luckily, her room was organized perfectly and she found a CD case with a CD _in _it in no time flat.

Racing back down the stairs, she clutched the CD from her room in her hand, and the two men watched her now, Sherlock with an amused sort of pride, and John with…well…perhaps it was also a look of pride.

Carefully, Lydia balanced out the gifts in her hands, one at a time, comparing their weight to the weight of the known CD. As she knew, one CD case was lighter than the other. _Much_ lighter. Almost as if there were no CD in it at all.

Holding up the slightly (infinitesimally) heavier CD, she announced confidently. "This one is Uncle John's."

Uncle John shook his head in amazement, but her father, his face a mask of neutrality, asked her patiently – "And what deductions support that conclusion?"

Lydia, too caught up in the excitement of actually applying deductions for an audience other than Gigi, forgot that she was supposed to be…not very good at it. Fortunately, she remembered the accent. Nearly a month of speaking with it non-stop made it nearly impossible to forget, now.

She grinned at her father. "It was obvious, Dad."

John looked taken aback at her statement, and her father raised his eyebrows.

Lydia plowed on. "Both cases are CD cases – the kind bought from music shops, not the flimsy kind bought at a cheap office supply store, based on the thickness and the ridges you can feel under the wrapping. Uncle John obviously bought me a CD – he meant to give it to me at the airport, but it was empty and blank, so you switched them out at some point when he wasn't paying attention. Sorry, Uncle John. And so I knew the gifts were _in_ CD cases, and the one most likely _was_ a CD, but one gift felt lighter than the other. So I compared their masses to a known CD weight, and since I already knew Uncle John had gotten me a real CD, I knew his had to be the gift that matched the closest mass of the real CD. The lighter one is from you, Dad, and probably contains…a picture, or a piece of paper, or something, describing the real gift you got me, because CDs are not your _thing_ but you wanted to test me so you got an empty CD case and wrapped it to test me on my deductions! Not too rusty, eh Dad?!" And she beamed at her father, who grinned at her in return.

"Holy _crap_," John said, looking between the two in amazement. "I thought we sent you to a _regular_ camp. How'd you -"

Lydia realized her mistake, and blushed, and shook her head. "Oh, we played a lot of…games that…reminded me of deductions. So I practiced. There was a girl there who…liked mysteries and such. Can I open them now?" She lied, and then asked brightly, changing the subject.

"Of course. Sound deductions, Genevieve." Sherlock smiled at her again, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time.

And she was somewhat disappointed because…she wanted she, herself, _Lydia_, to get credit for that stroke of brilliance. Ah, well. _Stick to the plan. Don't make him any more suspicious…he'd be angry if he found out now, anyway…_

She remembered in time, now, to behave more like Gigi, and took her time carefully opening Uncle John's present first. It was a Yo-Yo Ma CD. It was perfect for Gigi.

So she smiled her most genuine Gigi smile, and flitted over to him, and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Uncle John. It's perfect."

He smiled warmly in return. "You're very welcome."

"If you think that was perfect, wait until you open mine." A smile played about her father's lips, and she could tell he had moved on from her previous demonstration and was as excited for her to open her present as she was.

_Gosh, but he's practically preening, _she thought, giddy as she opened the gift – _meant for Gigi_ – she reminded herself.

Opening the blank CD case, she found a piece of paper, folded carefully to fit inside the case.

Slowly, carefully, she opened it.

The first thing she noticed was the _London Symphony Orchestra_ heading.

Her gaze flicked to her father, who was smiling almost smugly. She continued reading.

Apparently, Gigi the amazing violinist had somehow gotten the chance to _practice with the LSO._

Lydia's fingers trembled and her mouth dropped open into a little 'O'.

_Oh, Lord, was she thankful that she'd pinched her fingers in that door. She only wished she'd broken them, now_.

She felt herself going pale, and was quite stern with herself. _Suck it up, Lydia. How would Gigi react to this?_

But it was too late. Her father had seen her worry and discomfort, and had crossed the room to crouch beside her.

"Genevieve," he said gently, "I'm sorry. I…shouldn't have surprised you with it like this. I received the response in the mail just yesterday. I sent in a recording just after you left for camp. But you _can_ do this. You're-"

"No," Lydia said quickly, reassuringly. "I mean – what I mean is, yes. I'm…this is the perfect gift, Dad – really, _completely_ perfect. Thank you. I'm just – worried, because of my…fingers," she lied. _Hopefully he doesn't see straight through this._

He was studying her curiously, now, looking between her fingers and her face. "Surely John has told you your fingers should be fine in a week or so. The practice with the Orchestra isn't until the end of the summer. You will have plenty of time to heal, and to practice, before practicing with the orchestra. You've…wanted to do this for a long time. I know you've stopped by to listen after school. And I've heard you practice some of their pieces."

Lydia blinked. _Whew. Not until the end of summer. And…it really was the perfect gift for Gigi. It was totally personal and thoughtful…why had Mum given him up, again?_ "You're right, Dad. It…it really is the perfect gift for me. Thank you." And she squeezed his hand once, gently, but before she could add anything else, her father was up and away, pacing.

"Of course it is." He flashed her a grin, rubbing his hands together. "And I'm summarily impressed by your improved deductive capabilities." _Drat, he hadn't moved on._ "Tell me, what can you deduce about what I've done today?"

Lydia frowned. The CDs were easy, and obvious – an isolated challenge. But though Gigi had taught her, she was not as familiar with her father, or his ways. Still, she supposed trying and…failing would make her look more like Gigi.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, studying the coat and scarf on the hanger near the door, and her father's ensemble, and the items around the flat. "Well…you've…gotten up, and…(_no dishes in the sink)_…didn't eat here…but you're not on a big case because I was coming home today and it's not raining today so your coat is dry…but…you could've gone out, and solved a small case…I'm not sure. Maybe you…ate with Mrs. Hudson this morning?" She asked hopefully. "Because her flat smelled like a…_fry up_…and she…seems…she is the sort to celebrate with food, right?"

He smiled gently at her. "There's my girl. Adequate application of extrapolation, but you missed something key about the kitchen – something obvious. I only had coffee, you can see and smell the remnants in the bin, there - "

"_I_ missed something obvious? You haven't even _mentioned_ my hair!" Lydia protested, and then clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at him, mortified.

He tilted his head and studied her, and something in his face changed. It was…it was almost…_sad_. But it was quickly replaced by a gentle smirk. "Of course I noticed." He took a few steps towards her, and took a strand of her dark hair between his fingers. "It was cut between…six and eight weeks ago? With sharp scissors, but one blade had a nick on the left edge. You decided fairly early at camp to cut it, didn't you? Unusual for you…" he muttered, and Lydia held her breath.

_Please oh please oh please oh please._

But she needn't have worried. He seemed distracted by something in his own mind. "But it is normal for children to explore boundaries and assert independence in their pre-teen years…" he continued muttering to himself.

Lydia took her father's hand and squeezed it again gently, and whispered, "It's okay, Dad."

He looked at her and smiled, but he still looked a bit out of focus, so Lydia said what she felt was a very Gigi thing to add. "I promise I won't go getting any piercings or tattoos. And I won't even _think_ about kissing a boy for another three months," she teased.

The look of frozen horror on her father's face made Lydia quickly amend her joke. "Three years, then?"

Sherlock recovered and smirked at her. "You know, in certain cultures, it would be acceptable for you to be engaged by now. Remember - once I took on a case in Bangladesh involving a girl your age who'd run away from her husband-to-be. She was clever. Hid in disguise as a servant girl right under their noses. I was quite…impressed with her and helped her find a home at a convent school for girls in Dhaka."

"Will you tell me about it?" Lydia asked quietly.

"About the case?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised. "You've heard that one before."

"Yes…but…I don't mind. I missed you at camp. Will you…tell me again?" Once again, Lydia found that she did not have to _act_.

And so, with Uncle John taking care of acquiring Chinese take-out, Lydia settled in for an evening of sitting starry-eyed by her newfound father as he regaled her with tales of adventure and intrigue in Bangladesh.

* * *

_Napa Valley, California_

Gigi stood, worry and anticipation fighting their battles in her stomach, looking for Lydia's worn yellow duffle to make its way around the baggage claim.

She was so nervous she didn't see it until its third trip around.

She knew it was its third trip around because her mother told her so.

"Lydia – bit of jetlag? That's the third time it's gone under your nose." A teasing, happy voice said from somewhere just behind her, as a woman reached around and hauled the yellow, flowered duffle off the belt.

"Mum?" Gasped Gigi, and turned to face her.

Her mother – and yes, it was her mother – was dressed in soft, pale jeans and a light, yellow, summery blouse with lots of ruffles. Her brown hair was braided to the side, and her smile was wide and happy.

She was the most beautiful woman Gigi had ever seen.

"Of course, silly. Who else would I be?" Her mum laughed, and held her arms open. "Come on, now, you've been away for eight weeks – surely I deserve a bit of public af-"

Gigi's enthusiastic embrace caused the last few syllables to leave Molly Hooper's mouth in a huff. "-fection. Well, there!"

She hugged her girl back, and it was with great reluctance that Gigi pulled away after a long moment – _Lydia isn't into all this hugging, remember._

Still, she beamed with happiness when Molly kissed both of her cheeks soundly, and held her at shoulder's length, beaming at her. "Look at you, Lydia! Growing up…you've gained at least two inches the past two months. My beautiful girl."

Gigi grinned back at her. "You're…looking good yourself, Mum. I'm…glad to be back."

"I'm glad you're back, too," Molly said, hoisting the duffle over her shoulder. "We've got a lot to catch up on. You first. How was camp? Did you make any girl-friends? Any _boy-friends_?" She teased.

"Moo-um!" Gigi protested, in Lydia's signature wail, as they began to walk side-by-side to the airport's exit. "You _know_ it was an all-girls camp."

"Mmm, but Camp Thurgood for Boys was just across the way. No one was sneaking out, were they?"

Gigi laughed. "No, Mum. No one was sneaking out, Mum."

"Good. You're far too young for that." Molly said, in mock sternness.

Gigi rolled her eyes, hamming up the Lydia angle. "I'll be eleven in February, Mum."

"Mmm, that's true."

By now, the mother and daughter had reached the parking lot. Molly guided them to an older yellow jeep, which she unlocked and placed the duffle in. Gigi recognized it from her lessons with Lydia as Mary's car.

"Mary working today, Mum?" She asked as she slid into the front seat, which was sticky with summer heat. "Ick," she commented, moving her legs so her thighs wouldn't stick to the seat.

"Here's a towel, love. Sit on this," Molly said, handing her a faded blue one. Gigi complied. "And you know Mary's at home baking your favorite bread, because that's the one thing I couldn't manage to cook for you, for your homecoming dinner."

"Thanks, Mum. Cheesy herb bread?" Gigi asked hopefully, knowing that was Lydia's favorite.

"Of course! It's still your favorite, isn't it?" Molly asked, sitting on a faded beige towel as she started the car.

"Of course, Mum. I mean, I haven't changed _that _much in eight weeks, Mum."

Molly grinned at her. For a few moments, they sat in companionable silence, Molly humming happily along with the radio, which was turned down low, and Gigi taking in the scenic mountains in the distance.

After a few moments, Molly continued the conversation again. "Are you hungry? I brought some of your favorites, in the basket by your feet – those honey braided pretzel twists, and fruit snacks, and lemonade, and water."

"Oh, thanks, Mum, but I'm not hungry, Mum." Gigi said, distracted by the sight of a picturesque city in a valley they were driving by.

"Not hungry?!" Molly laughed. "What exactly did they feed you on that plane?"

Gigi blushed, and sheepishly remembered Lydia's notorious appetite. "Must be that jetlag, again, Mum. Or something. Sorry. I'm sure I'll be hungry for dinner." _I've got to eat a lot at dinner_.

"I'm sure you will," Molly smiled at her. "And then, since you're suffering so from that jetlag, I've got us some older movies to watch – all sorts. There's _Bedknobs and Broomsticks_, and _From Russia With Love_, and _Roman Holiday, _and _Master of Disguise,_ and _The Blob_, so I've got all our bases covered, so to speak. And we can chat about camp and I can tell you what's been happening in sunny California while you've been away." She glanced over at her daughter, who was beaming at her.

"That…sounds great, Mum. Really, really great. Thanks...Mum."

Molly wrinkled her nose and laughed, a short, breathy laugh. "Why do you keep doing that, Lydia?"

"Doing what?" Gigi asked, stiffening just a bit. Molly didn't notice.

"Calling me 'Mum'? Not that I mind…you're just…saying it quite a bit, you know," Molly teased.

"Oh," Gigi said, and then, because it was always easier for her to play a part when there was a large amount of truth involved, explained. "Well, while I was at camp, I…met this girl. She didn't have a Mum. And I realized…that there are a lot of people, every day, who never get to say the word 'Mum'. They don't have Mums to pick them up at airports or cook homecoming meals or rent loads of old fil-er…movies. They just…don't. And so…I just…am…happy, I guess, that I can say it now."

"Now?" Molly asked, smiling at her daughter. Gigi noticed her eyes were a bit wet and…blinky…after her little speech. _Perhaps I can be a bit more…myself…if I just use that excuse these next few weeks._

"Well, now that I'm home, I mean...Mum." Gigi feigned carelessness, displaying a false bravado she hoped would pass for Lydia's.

Molly laughed again.

"Sorry, Mum," Gigi said again, laughing herself.

"It's quite all right, Lydia. You can call me Mum as often as you like."

* * *

As they pulled in to the driveway of the pretty little brick duplex, Gigi's heart was going a mile a minute. She had fooled her mother so far – but she still had Mary Morstan to fool, as well. Molly grabbed the duffle, and Gigi grabbed the uneaten basket of snacks on the jeep floor.

Gigi let Molly enter first and head up the stairs to the bedrooms. After entering herself she stopped and closed the door behind her. As she turned around, her eyes widened, taking in her home, and walking through it slowly, remembering everything Lydia had taught her. As she walked in the door, there was a little entryway with a closet for coats and shoes, and then polished wooden floors led to a stairway going up. Beside the stairway, the room opened to a small-ish living room, which contained an old patterned couch, a comfy plush chair, two bookcases with titles neatly lined, a rug, a television and DVD player above the fake electric fireplace, and a host of knick-knacks, obviously taken from various trips. Gigi let her fingers trail over a snow-globe of Mickey Mouse and a miniature of the Golden Gate Bridge, which had the inscription _I left my heart in San Francisco._ The room was casual and warm and led into the kitchen, which was painted a bright sunny yellow, and displayed papers and diagrams of Lydia's, as well as a countertop full of delicious-smelling food, and a clean, round oak table with four chairs neatly pressed in around it. There were some dirty dishes in the sink, but it was all so…_domestic,_ and cheery, and organized clutter, that Gigi couldn't help but smile. Next came the dining room, neat and formal, and finally, a den - where a desk, several bookshelves, a chair, and a side-table all contained neat stacks of books and journals and papers. None of the furniture matched, but somehow…it all _matched_ – it fit in perfectly_._ Gigi already loved the house. "It's…perfect," she breathed.

"Being home, or the cooking? Or both?" A voice said from behind her, and she gasped and jumped and turned around, and there was Mary Morstan.

She was shorter than Gigi had pictured her, but filled with a sort of self-assured energy that made her seem larger, somehow. Her short blonde hair accented her light eyes, and she suppressed a smile as she took in the girl before her.

"Well, come here, and let me look at you!" She exclaimed.

Gigi smiled and obediently stepped forward from behind the chair.

Mary took her in, and apparently liked what she saw. "Two inches, at least! You're looking good, girl. It's thinned you out, though. You hungry? Your mum's been working nonstop to make this meal for you." She sounded proud. "Have fun at camp, then?"

"Yeah!" Gigi nodded enthusiastically, grinning as she thought Lydia would. "It was fun. Loads, actually. But I'm glad to be home. Oh – Toby?!" She cried, as a mewing, fat gray tabby lazily wound around Mary's ankles before making his way to Gigi.

She squatted down to greet him, but he raised his hackles, and hissed, and darted away.

Mary frowned. "Strange old thing. Must be going senile. He always loves you, Lydia." She gave her a strange look.

Gigi laughed nervously, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just…smell like camp, is all."

"Mmmhmm," Mary agreed, staring at Gigi for another moment before breaking into a smile. "All right, then – enough standing around. Go upstairs and help your Mum unpack, Lydia, before she spoils you and does it all for you."

Gigi was about to apologize – and then caught herself and grinned, then rolled her eyes. "Fine…you've uncovered my nefarious plot. I suppose I have no choice now but to be forced into slave labor."

Mary swatted her shoulder affectionately as she walked past. "And, Ms. Sass is back. Glad you're home, love!" She called after her, as Gigi made her way up the stairs to her room.

* * *

Gigi did her best to eat a lot at dinner – she really did. Practically deserved a medal for her Herculean effort to down as much food as possible. (And Lydia was right – that bread was _delicious._) But she was stuffed before she'd even finished everything on her plate. And when Mary went to put more on said plate, she held up her hands in surrender. "Mary – Mum – thank you, really! I…I am just _so full_. I can't eat another bite."

Mary and Molly exchanged concerned glances, and Molly moved to place a slender hand on Gigi's forehead. Ducking, Gigi insisted – "I'm _fine_. Really. I'm just…full. Must be my…body adjusting, or something."

_She hoped Toby liked human food, because apparently she was going to have to exacerbate his weight problem if she was going to pull off this deception. Did her sister have a hollow leg or something?!_

"All right," Molly said doubtfully. "But let me know if you're not feeling well, all right? Sometimes you can pick up a nasty germ on an airline."

Gigi smiled at her mother. "I will. But I'm fine."

Mary began clearing the table, and cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows at Molly.

Molly frowned at Mary, and sighed, and then began fidgeting with her hands on her lap. It was a tiny motion – a small, subconscious thing, rubbing her ring finger with her thumb – but Gigi had overheard enough cases with her father to know what that meant. And for Gigi – a motion like that could only mean trouble ahead.

Molly smiled timidly at her daughter. "I'm excited to hear all about camp, Lydia. And a lot has happened here in eight weeks, too." She took a breath. "I got that grant I applied for – the one for furthering my research on cellular regeneration? Apparently they received some extra money this year. And I'm going to be giving a conference next weekend on-"

Gigi jumped at the chance to focus on this particular development, dreading any other further announcements by her newfound mother. "You did?! That's great, Mum! I knew you'd get it, though. They'd have to be stupid not to give it to you."

"Lydia!" Molly scolded, but her eyes were smiling.

"Well, it's true," Gigi persisted, pushing the remainder of her food around her plate with a fork, hoping to make it look like she'd taken just a few more bites. "You're brilliant, Mum. The best. So what exactly are you going to do? For your experiment?"

And Gigi sighed in relief as her mother began explaining her research, her other announcement long forgotten.

* * *

Later that night, as Gigi lay asleep on the couch as the closing credits of _Roman Holiday _played across the screen and Molly was tidying up stray pieces of popcorn, Mary gently confronted her friend.

"You didn't tell her, Molly." She bent down to help collect the few pieces that had gone under the chair in the midst of a mother-daughter popcorn flinging war.

Molly sighed, sitting back on her heels. "I know, Mary. I know. It's just…it's been just the two of us for so long. I wanted…I wanted one more night of this."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "You're already missing being single? Molly-"

"No, no!" Protested Molly, holding up her hands in defense. "That's not what I meant. I just meant…" she sighed, and fiddled with the end of her braid, which was lopsided and smushed now after her evening watching movies with Lydia. Lydia had been particularly cuddly tonight – not that Molly minded in the least – but Molly knew that this sweet and cuddly streak would not last forever, and in all honesty, her daughter did not deal well with change – _like her father_. "I just meant, I know this will be a big change for her, and I wanted to give her one last night of…_us_. Us as a duo, instead of a trio." She smiled at her friend.

Mary sighed, then smiled. "I know. But you've got to tell her soon."

Molly nodded. "Tomorrow. I'll…tell her tomorrow."

* * *

_London, England_

Later that evening, after 'Gigi' was tucked safely away in her bed upstairs, curled into a ball with her arms around a pillow, Sherlock sat thinking in his armchair as John cleaned up the remnants of their take-away.

John gave him a glance. Sherlock's arms rested on the chair's, and he scowled as he leveled a gaze across the room at the wall. If John didn't know better, he'd say it looked like Sherlock was attempting to use the Force to cause spontaneous combustion, or something equally ridiculous. But he also knew his friend, and he knew that his frustration was simply a mask for the sadness he felt at seeing his daughter grow up. And perhaps, residual sadness from…before.

"Sherlock?" John asked casually, wiping down the countertops.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

"Her hair does look good."

Sherlock looked up at him sharply. "Whether it looks _good_ or not isn't the issue, John. Those ends looked like they were cut _nine to ten_ weeks ago…not six to eight. But she couldn't have cut her hair _before_ she went to camp."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, then maybe _you're_ as rusty as those scissors she got it cut with. She's growing up, Sherlock. Her hair's bound to grow faster or slower at times."

"Mmm," Sherlock grunted again, but his face was less…bothered, now.

"And how does that…make you feel? Her shorter hair?" John pressed, seeing Sherlock relax a bit.

"Why would I feel any particular way about her hair, John? You know I've always said it would be much more practical to wear it short. Less tangles, less mess, less…shedding." He scoffed.

John smiled a little half-smile and nodded. "I know you _say_ that, Sherlock." He hesitated a moment, and continued. "But…longer…she always…looked…more like…" he paused, noticing Sherlock's jaw clench.

"More like _what, _John?" Sherlock said stiffly.

John sighed, and his heart hurt just a bit for his friend. Sherlock had messed up with Molly – and though it was a sad shock to see her go, John couldn't exactly say he _blamed_ her – but at the same time, he was just…a bit disappointed that she'd given up. And Sherlock was still hurting about it. But John had hope that his friend would recover. He was hurting, but he hadn't…deleted anything, about their relationship. And he had Gigi, who was a Godsend. She'd unknowingly done so much to heal her father's broken heart.

He sighed. "More like her mother."

Sherlock did not move. "I see no reason why that should matter at all to me."

John shook his head. "No," he muttered. "You don't."

Still, hours after John had left and Sherlock was wide awake, laptop in front of him, clicking through cases – Sherlock succumbed to temptation and opened a saved file, long hidden amongst other documents, and his lips twitched into a rueful smile.

* * *

"He's suspicious, sir," Anthea said quietly, interrupting Mycroft's thoughts on the rising tensions between two groups of insurgents in Egypt.

He looked sharply up at her, and frowned. It took him all of three seconds to realize she was referring to her brother.

He sighed. "Any change in status or word from Mary?"

Anthea shook her head. "No change, sir. Apparently Gigi has managed to hold her own in California. Lydia has done an admiral job, however. He's merely mildly suspicious of her haircut, and nothing else."

"Mmm," sighed Mycroft. "I suppose I shall have to offer him a mildly diverting case, to keep his mind off of Lydia."

He began typing furiously on his laptop. "Ah. A nice seven should prove distracting enough. Tomorrow morning, Anthea, I will be paying a visit to my dear brother."

She nodded brusquely, fingers already flying on her mobile.

She smiled to herself as she turned to leave Mycroft's office. She barely heard him mumble as he shook his head – "The lengths I go to to ensure my stupid brother's goldfish have happy lives."

_The lengths you go to to ensure your stupid brother doesn't ruin his happiness with that oversized brain of his,_ Anthea corrected silently to herself.

* * *

**As always, please review if you have time!  
**

**Thanks for your support!**

**Also, P.S. - This summer I have discovered Hilary McKay's books, which I mentioned in this chapter. She is a fabulous children's author from the U.K. and I already love all of the books I've read that she's written.  
**


	5. A Chip and a Crack

**Hello! This chapter was hard for me, because the excitement of chapter 6 was calling. It's also a bit long, but one of my reviewers (thank you!) pointed out that they weren't exactly sure how much of Season 3 had happened, or if any of it had. Hopefully this chapter will help clear some things up. Only about 2 chapters to go before the big Sherlolly reunion! (I'm taking my time...sorry!)**

**Thank you to all of you for your kind reviews and support. They are much appreciated! **

**Thank you also to OpalSkyDivineLove for your awesome feedback and ideas. It was her idea to have Gigi play the violin, which will definitely come into play next chapter. :) **

* * *

Chapter 5: A Chip and a Crack

_"I don't care what consequence it brings - I have been a fool for lesser things._

_I want you so bad – I think you ought to know that – I intend to hold you for the longest time."_

-Billy Joel, "For the Longest Time"

* * *

_Sherlock finds that the old version of 'normal' no longer suits him. _

_He's still replaying that kiss in his mind, involuntarily. And the strangest, littlest things – a rush of wind on his lips, the dull hum of a busy intersection, the weight of a bag on his arm - remind him of the incident in the hospital. Apparently, it is un-deletable now._

_And as is the case with everything Sherlock finds enjoyable, he's already more than a bit addicted to it - to the idea of kissing **her**. _

_And though he's convinced John to let it go – "She doesn't remember, John, and that's a good thing for the both of us" – he finds that **he** cannot let it go. He cannot let this mystery go. What is it about Molly that he finds so…increasingly difficult to resist?_

_It is not enough to work with Molly frequently in the lab, or to visit her in the morgue on cases, or even to 'bump into her' on the street with increasing regularity. _

_So he decides he will have to jog her memory. _

_But she's starting to notice now – how often he's around - and it's starting to frustrate her, because though she likes it – or at the very least, she doesn't mind it - she doesn't understand it._

_So Molly slaps the petri dish down with a resounding smack in the make-shift lab room (Barts is still undergoing minor repairs and inspections after the whole bomb in the morgue incident), but Sherlock's gaze does not falter from hers, as he has been staring at her, full-force, for the past fifteen minutes. And it's really very disconcerting._

_"All right, what exactly are you doing? What's going on?" She demands, fully expecting him to be buttering her up for some ridiculous request for a whole body or free access to the formaldehyde or some other such nonsense. _

_A tiny part of her is just a little bit frightened that he's worried or sad again – that perhaps, Moran wasn't the last enemy to defeat, in the whole Moriarty scheme. _

_And an even tinier tiny part of her is hoping he's been around so much simply for the pleasure of her company, but she knows that although they are friends, now, he still doesn't do that - spend time with people simply for the pleasure of their company. She loves him, in all his odd, eccentric glory - but she knows him – and he doesn't do that._

_He smiles, and a flicker of indecision crosses his features before he seems to come to a resolution and answers. "I was hoping to help you remember the events that occurred at the hospital two weeks and three days ago. A sort of experiment, to see how far you've suppressed the memory of your time spent incapacitated at this hospital."_

_Molly frowns. "I haven't -"_

_"Yes, you have. And I'd like to help you recover it." He begins straightening the countertop he was working on._

_"You said it wasn't important. The memory." She crosses her arms across her chest suspiciously._

_He doesn't meet her eyes when he answers. "I'm finding that it is more important than I first thought." _

_Molly bites her lip, and that tiny part that is dreading involvement with Moriarty again gets just a bit bigger. "All right. As soon as-"_

_But Sherlock has already grabbed her arm, and is already hauling her down the hallway. "Work can wait. This is more important."_

_She raises an eyebrow at him, but her face pales. What could be more important-? "Sherlock…does this have to do with Moran? Moriarty? Are we not safe, because I-"_

_Seeing her look of fright, he slows his pace and gently shakes his head. "No, no. This has nothing to do with Moriarty. You have nothing to fear, Molly Hooper. Not from him. Not ever again."_

_She's relieved, but also a little angry that he's frightened her so, for no reason. "Well, then what is so important that I need to remember now? You said it was more important than work." _

_"Fine," he amends, after a pause. "More interesting." And he continues to pull her down the hallway, despite her feeble protests._

_Which are now feeble because she's curious herself – what did she forget that does not involve Moriarty, that Sherlock Holmes still deems important for her to remember?_

_He takes her to the hospital room she was in that first night – empty, now, due to the minor reconstruction and cleaning – and gestures to it, obviously insinuating that she should lie down. _

_She sighs, and bites her lip. "Really? You want me to lie down?"_

_"It will help," he insists. _

_"Please," he adds after a moment._

_So she lies down, and he immediately covers her with a blanket, and then begins acting out a bizarre one-man play._

_He stands on one side of her, gently holding her hand, bending his knees so that he is a bit shorter, and does a fairly decent imitation of John Watson. "Molly, there we are - waking up, are we? That's right – gave us a scare – how are you doing, now?"_

_And then he stops, and looks at her expectantly._

_"Um…fine, thanks?" She improvises hopefully._

_Sherlock frowns. "No, no. You said-" and here, Sherlock looks up, as though internally scrolling through a script – "you said: 'Where is he?'"_

_Molly says nothing for a moment, and then, suspicious – "You actually…want me to repeat what I actually said that night? Because I don't even remember…how do **you** even know what I said that night? Were you there? I mean, of - of course you were there, but not the whole…oh! Did you interview – did you ask John and Greg about everything I said?!" And she is not exactly accusing him, just bewildered – why would he do that? - and he smirks at her, waiting for her to acquiesce to his request._

_After a moment, she frowns, but she repeats her lines to him, confused. "Where is he?"_

_Sherlock immediately goes into John Watson imitation mode, again. "Where is who?"_

_Molly waits for him to tell her her lines, and when he tells her – _

_"Wait – I said that? I'm – I'm sorry Sherlock…I mean,…" _

_He smirks again, bemused, and brushes off her apologies. "You were drugged, Molly. And generally, that assessment would be quite correct. No need to apologize. This isn't what I'm trying to get you to remember. Please, try to focus."_

_And so Molly swallows, and reluctantly repeats her lines. "Where…where is that giant git we call Sherlock?" It comes out flat and slightly embarrassed._

_"No, no," Sherlock frowns. "You were drugged, Molly, and quite a bit more bold, than usual. John said you were loud and quite confident in your abuse. Do you even want to remember what happened?"_

_She gives him the most incredulous look she can muster, because this was his idea – **he** is the one who wants her to remember what happened. But she sighs, and decides it might be fun to yell at him for (apparently) the second time. _

_"Where is that giant git we call Sherlock?!" She tries again, and smiles afterward, because it certainly does feel good to get that off her chest._

_And this strange role-play continues for the next few moments, until Sherlock, portraying Lestrade now, stops in the middle of an argument that Timothy Dalton was as good a Bond as Sean Connery. He raises his eyebrow at Molly in expectation, but does not feed her any lines. She must not have said anything at that point._

_She frowns. "He stopped…because…something happened."_

_Sherlock does not interrupt. _

_"There was…snow. No…dust…from the ceiling? It fell…because…of…the bomb!" She announces triumphantly, and looks proudly at Sherlock._

_He's smiling impatiently at her. Oh. Not what he wanted her to remember. She tries again._

_"And then…someone…came to carry me out of the hospital because of it?" She asks hopefully._

_"You're not remembering anything besides what I've already confirmed for you, but you're deducing the timing of events correctly," Sherlock admits gruffly, and briskly walks over to her, and scoops her up before she has a chance to protest. _

_"Wha – is – is this really necessary?" She asks his left shoulder, because really, she must be the shade of a tomato, now, and really, she's enjoying being carried by Sherlock Holmes far, far too much. And really, he'll be able to tell if he keeps her this close to him for much longer._

_"Of course. It happened. It may be the thing to restore your memory." He states, beginning to walk slowly out of the room and down the empty hallway._

_Thank the Lord it was empty. "Who – who are you playing, then?" She asks softly, after a moment._

_"Hmmm?" Sherlock asks, moving and bobbing as though wading through a sea of people. Which at the time, Molly realizes, was what her…person had done._

_"John, or Greg? Who carried me down the hallway?" She almost doesn't want to hear the answer, because it is far nicer to imagine that Sherlock was the one who'd done all this. _

_A hesitation, and then - "I did."_

_Oh. Molly blinks. If her face was a tomato before, it is certain to be practically purple by now. She wonders idly just how much blood can rush to her face before it begins affecting other body parts. "You carried me." She's proud of how even her voice sounds._

_"Of course. I had to make sure you were safe. Moran had already nearly killed you once." _

_She isn't exactly sure what to make of his tone. It isn't overly…anything, really. Not his usual smug, matter-of-fact, don't-bother-me-with-silly-questions tone, but it isn't necessarily…tender, either. It is…just…soft, and…different. _

_"Oh. Well. Thank you." Her voice is barely a whisper now. She doesn't trust herself to say anything more. One of her arms is wrapped around his neck, and her other hand, of its own accord, is stroking his shirt. She balls her hand into a fist to keep from touching him unnecessarily._

_"My pleasure," he says dismissively._

_He then stops a few hundred feet from the stairwell exit they're approaching, and swiftly moves her further up and into him, as though dodging an invisible someone, clutching her almost painfully to his chest._

_"Wha - what are you doing, Sherlock?"_

_"I should think it painfully obvious," he says, and looks down at her. Molly suddenly has the very distinct feeling that she had met his eyes like this once before, like deja-vu, or a dream – but she's afraid to go down that path. He's practically a mind-reader, after all…_

_"Well," she gasps, beginning to wriggle in his grip – "I'm getting the painful part, but it's not obvious to me."_

_He gently lessens his grasp on her, and she sees something – disappointment? apology? uncertainty?- in his eyes._

_"Well, that makes two of us," he says softly, frustrated. He still hasn't let her down, however. "Do you…remember, anything yet?" He is searching her face for something, but she doesn't know exactly what._

_And her eyes are now practically level with his lips, which makes her lick her own, and her heart begins beating rapidly. "No," she whispers, and her eyelashes flutter on her cheeks._

_He leans down, just a bit, closing the gap between them. He watches her carefully, making sure he isn't causing her any unnecessary discomfort. "How about now?"_

_"No," she barely manages to whisper again, before his lips come down even closer to hers, so that the feel and scent and potential taste of him are all she can focus on, besides the stilted, panicked thought that she must have kissed him at the hospital – she had kissed him, and forgotten – how could she have forgotten? _

_"How about now?" He murmurs into her mouth, and kisses her gently. _

_When he pulls away a moment later, she is stunned, and he smirks at her. "Let's try that again, shall we?"_

_She's truly pleased to find that when she finds the sense to start kissing him back, he has to set her down and press her into the wall, for all the trembling in his hands. _

_And she must be dreaming, because surely…Sherlock Holmes doesn't snog people in empty hospital hallways._

* * *

_11 years later_

_ London, England_

As was typically the case, Mycroft's timing was spot-on – at least for his own purposes.

Sherlock was up, having slept very little the night before, and unsuccessful in his attempts to distract himself from thoughts of Gigi's new independent streak, (_growing up…inevitable change…suspicion he could not put off about that hair cut, with no ready solutions in his mind)_ with either cases emailed to him or with any of the experiments he had on hand in his make-shift kitchen laboratory. _Or with his secret record of a certain doctor's work on cellular regeneration._ It was the sort of night that he may have resorted to shooting walls or screeching unpleasant melodies on his violin, had he not had a daughter upstairs whose body and internal clock needed to readjust after quite a large time-change. As it was, he was sorely tempted to do it anyway.

Mycroft's case arrived precisely as the sun was rising over the hazy London skyline, with a loud knocking that woke the slumbering Martha Hudson and John Watson.

Because of course, if Mycroft had arrived with a case _himself_…Sherlock would have refused to take it, and may have wondered at what his brother was attempting to distract him from in the first place.

No…much better to send the case itself straight to Sherlock.

It was a disgruntled, half-asleep John Watson who led a rather large, muscular man into Sherlock's sitting room at 5:46 a.m.

"Not interested," Sherlock greeted him, scowling from his armchair. He was in a _mood_ after his traitorous mind's wanderings, the night before.

"Don't mind him," John quickly apologized for his friend. "Apparently, he hasn't slept at all. He's fretting over his daughter's new haircut," he explained.

"I am _not_ fretting!" Sherlock protested angrily.

John ignored him. "He's fretting," he confided confidently in the client.

"Not-" Sherlock began to protest again, and then, realizing that he may be protesting _too_ much, scowled at John, who was making coffee, and gestured flippantly to the man across from him. "_Oh, _you might as well start talking to drown out _his_ smug and very wrong train of thought."

The man sat perfectly upright, his back not touching the back of the couch he sat in. "Mr. Alexander Holder, of Streatham Securities," he began, but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Yes, yes, private security company, does work for banks and a number of wealthy individuals, founded by you and your brother Robert Holder, both ex-military men – army. Skip to the case, please."

The man nodded, his countenance unhindered by Sherlock's brusque analysis. "I was completing a job for an anonymous client, a week ago. Said client entrusted a very well-known, valuable object to myself in exchange for said job, and I took it to my own home that evening for safe-keeping. You are aware that we are the leading company in the private security industry, Mr. Holmes."

"Unfortunate for your customers, considering the fact that you've lost such a 'valuable object'."

"Not lost, Mr. Holmes. Damaged. Apparently by my son, Arthur. In my opinion, it would have been impossible for him to damage the object to such a degree on his own. He's currently under house arrest, but he refuses to tell me anything. Not I, not his sister, not my brother – no one. This is the object that was given to me for safe-keeping, before and after the damage was done." He held out two pictures of a late-sixteenth century beryl coronet.

"John," Sherlock said, eyeing the pictures. "Photographs."

"What?" Said John, who was now sitting in his own armchair, blowing steam off of his coffee. Mr. Holder had politely declined when asked if he wanted any, and Sherlock had not responded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting between John and the pictures that Mr. Holder was holding out.

"Oh, come _on,_" John said, his words short with frustration as he stood up to take the photos from Mr. Holder and handed them to Sherlock. He paused when he took a good look at them himself. "What?! Is that – a crown?"

One photograph looked to have been taken for a magazine or museum – a red and gold crown, emblazoned with beryl and smaller diamonds. It was pristine and obviously valuable. The other photograph showed the same coronet, the base twisted and disfigured, with several stones missing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking the pictures. "A man of your stature could have easily twisted the crown, especially if there were some sort of tool, such as a wrench or bar of some type, nearby. Photograph isn't detailed enough to see exactly what caused the damage. I'm not interested in a case of _who broke the cookie jar_, Mr. Holder."

"But my son couldn't have done the damage himself, Mr. Holmes. Less than ten minutes passed between the safe alarms sounding and my arrival at the safe. It was the middle of the night, he was alone, no accomplices, no tools, no…machinery of any sort to be found. He's…protecting someone, but I have no clue who. I need your help."

And Sherlock stopped in the middle of an eye-roll when the man showed them another picture, because the young man did appear to be incapable of causing so much damage on his own in less than ten minutes. He was an amputee – his right-arm stopping mid-forearm, no wrist or hand. And though his muscles were lean, he was not the bulking man his father was. Sherlock blinked, running through scenarios in his mind.

After a moment, he sat upright and grinned at the lumbering man who was currently taking up half of his couch. "I'll take it."

"The case?"

"Coffee." Sherlock said to John, and then, to Mr. Holder – "And, because this is the first seven in two months, the case. You have staff at your home? What time do they arrive?"

"Eight."

"We'll be there shortly after."

* * *

Lydia's stomach would be her undoing, she decided.

It was barely eight o'clock in the morning, and, though the rest of her body was begging for an extra few hours of sleep – her stomach was already growling like a ferocious beast.

_Mind over matter,_ she chanted. _Mind over matter_, willing her stomach to calm down, imagining it was full to the brim, willing herself to think of things unrelated to the pancakes and eggs and breakfast meats her Mum and Mary were sure to be cooking for Gigi at some point, on the other side of the world.

It didn't work.

Sighing, she rolled upright and rubbed gritty sleep from her eyes.

Blinking, she looked around Gig's room, taking in the sunlight filtering in through the cream-colored curtains, the lavender bedspread, the neat shelves and desk. She straightened her messy hair absent-mindedly as she yawned.

A knock at her door a few moments later reminded her that she was wasting time staring at her sister's bedroom when she had a father to get to know, and a stomach to feed.

"Genevieve," her father's voice sounded softly through the door.

"Mmmm? Dad? Morning." A yawn punctuated her greeting.

He opened the door, and gave her a small smile. "Good morning. John and I have a case. Should be a seven, I think." He rubbed his hands briskly together in excitement.

Lydia blinked and frowned as she took in his coat. He was leaving already? "Can't I go with you?" She asked.

He tilted his head, studying her. "You want to go with me?"

_Drat. Not a Gigi thing_. "Um…"

His eyes were narrowed, but not angry. Thinking.

"I just…missed you. I've been away for eight weeks," she reminded him.

He hesitated, but seemed to accept it, and his lips twitched up into a small smile. "Of course I'd be…glad to have you accompany me-"

Lydia's heart lifted in anticipation –

"-but unfortunately we know very little about the nature of this case, yet. And it's private, so no Scotland Yard or Lestrade. Perhaps, once John and I return this evening -"

Lydia hid her disappointment with a small, Gigi-smile. "Sounds great, Dad. Have fun."

He gave her a nod in return, and then was back to business. "I expect today you'll still be adjusting to the time change. Feel free to…_relax_, but you should stay awake. Try not to fall asleep. Mrs. Hudson has volunteered to make you breakfast, if you're hungry at all after last night's feast. Didn't eat much on the plane?"

Lydia was glad the curtains were still drawn, so the room was dark and her father couldn't see her slight blush. "Uh…right. Still…quite full, after last night. But I may…have something small."

"Excellent," he said indifferently, and then moved into the room to kiss her forehead before bidding her good-bye.

She sat in the bed for a moment longer, before a grumble of protest from her empty stomach caused her to reluctantly move into action. She rolled out of bed and fumbled for a light switch, and got herself ready for the day. At least Mrs. Hudson was home.

_Time for some covert operations._

* * *

Less than an hour later, having snacked on an apple and having cleaned herself up and gotten dressed, pulling the blankets up haphazardly around the pillows to make her bed, she rushed downstairs with the hope of a proper breakfast high on her mind.

Mrs. Hudson was happy to see her. She made a small exclamation of welcome, and ushered Lydia in. Mrs. Hudson quickly heated and spooned scrambled eggs and a piece of toast onto Lydia's plate, and set butter and jam and a glass of orange juice before her, ever eager to coax more food into her tennants.

Lydia began eating, asking Mrs. Hudson about what went on while she was at camp. Mrs. Hudson was an excellent talker, and told her about the two bigger cases her father had taken in her absence, one of which resulted in an old-fashioned New Zealand spear through the front door of Baker Street.

Lydia enjoyed listening, and then Mrs. Hudson asked her what had gone on at camp. Lydia told her the bland story she and Gigi had rehearsed, which did include funny little tidbits of the truth (_I beat a girl in archery, but she whooped my tush at Cluedo)_. They sat in relatively happy silence for a moment, before Mrs. Hudson leaned over to take her breakfast dishes away (Lydia was still a little hungry, though she didn't say so) and asked, with a twinkle in her eye – "And what's the story behind your haircut, Gigi? I'm sure it's a good one, you were always so attached to your long hair."

Lydia hesitated.

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. "Was it…for a _romantic interest_?" She asked.

Lydia frowned – _of course not_ – but…in a flash, she decided to roll with it. _She was supposed to be digging up information on how her parents met and fell in love, after all._ She leaned over the table, and smiled conspiratorially to Mrs. Hudson. "I'll…I'll tell you," she lied, "but you have to promise to keep it a secret. And…" she blushed. "I want to ask you some questions, too. About…about my parents."

Mrs. Hudson paused for a moment, washing the dishes, and then she sighed. "All right. If you tell me the story of your hair, I'll tell you the story of…what was it you wanted to know about your parents?"

"How they met, and fell in love, and got married," Lydia said promptly.

Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly and nodded, and sat down at her table across from Lydia. "I always knew this day would come. You coming to me, I mean. Heaven knows I'm the only woman in your life, Gigi, dear – old as I am - but it's perfectly natural to come to me…and you do deserve to know about your parents, becoming a teenager soon. I always promised myself that your first crush…well. You tell your story, and I'll do my best to remember about your parents."

So Lydia told her a concocted fib about an older boy (sixteen!) at camp who was employed as a lifeguard, and her little crush on him, and how a friend at camp convinced her to get her hair cut the first week because it accentuated her face and it might get his attention, and threw in a funny incident about how her counselor reacted, and ended it with "It went absolutely no-where, because he barely even looked at me, but I'd cut it, and I couldn't tell Dad why…can you imagine his reaction?!"

And Mrs. Hudson laughed with her, and patted her hand, and told her that her secret was safe from Sherlock. "Oh, it makes sense, then, why you'd want to know about your parent's romance," Mrs. Hudson cooed as she wiped her eyes a bit. "Well…where shall I start?" It was a rhetorical question, and Mrs. Hudson took a moment to collect her thoughts.

_I'm brilliant_, Lydia crowed internally. _I'm a total genius_.

"Your father had already met your, before he moved in with me – she worked – at…" she paused for a moment, arranging her wording, almost like she'd already thought long and hard about what to say to Gigi, before continuing – "she worked at the hospital – St. Bart's. A doctor. But not…not quite the fix people up sort. More of the science sort. You know. So your father would see her quite often when working on cases. Never mentioned her, at first…knew her for years and years before she even came around, here. He's always such a private man, with such an odd way of thinking, your father. Who knows what he was thinking all those years? But she did come 'round to visit eventually, just short visits at first, to help Sherlock set up his lab in the kitchen, and I liked her right off, though I could tell she felt something for your father that he didn't return. At least, we all _thought_ he didn't return her feelings. Apparently, we were wrong."

Lydia's stomach chose that moment to protest quite loudly at its lack of contents. Mrs. Hudson gave her a look. "Why didn't say you were still hungry, dear?! You and your father, always ignoring your stomachs. Well, you're a growing girl, Gigi, and you need more food. I'll put on some tea."

_Thank goodness_, thought Lydia, but didn't want to move away from the topic at hand. "So…when did you first suspect Dad…returned her feelings?"

"Well," Mrs. Hudson said, putting the kettle on the stove and pulling some digestives out of their packaging and arranging them on a plate, "I'm a bit embarrassed to say that I didn't suspect anything until it was quite obvious to everyone else, but for your Uncle John, at least – I think it was…that Christmas, dear. Your father had a case involving…involving something that had him out of sorts, and your mother arrived, rambling on a bit – it was her way, around him, at first, dear – but she was dressed – well, she was wearing something very unlike her. Form-fitting…_sexy_, even." Mrs. Hudson waggled her eyebrows, and Lydia giggled. "Greg could barely keep his eyes in his head, when she took off her coat." She chuckled a bit at the memory, as she made herself and Lydia tea.

Sitting back down, Mrs. Hudson set out everything on the table, along with a cup of tea in front of Lydia.

Lydia did her best to eat the cookies in front of her slowly and thoughtfully.

Mrs. Hudson continued. "Your father noticed – not in the 'oh, how lovely way', more of the… 'what-on-earth' way, because your mother – well, what she usually wore was _not_ sexy. She was a lovely woman, Gigi, very independent and kind – a cast-iron stomach and a heart of gold, that one, but not very fashion-forward, if you know what I mean."

Lydia did know what she meant. Her mother was notorious for having a wardrobe consisting mainly of khakis, slacks, and hideous grandma-sweaters, although she did have a few nice blouses - and Lydia had worked miracles in convincing her to try out some comfortable jeans, and some bright, flow-y, comfortable skirts these past few years, since her mother's main concern was comfort. And her second concern was bright colors. _I like what I like,_ she'd explained to an embarrassed eight-year-old Lydia. _And if you don't like it, you certainly don't have to wear what I do._

"Anyway, your mother was there, dressed up like she was going to a black-tie event, and your father noticed, and he began…deducing her. Like he does, with people. And he made some…insulting remarks about the…" Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "About her appearance, basically suggesting she was…trying too hard, dear, for her boyfriend, with her outfit and perfectly wrapped gift. You really should never have to change your appearance for the person you love – a little lesson in there for you, dear. And – anyway, then he looked at the gift, nosy, seeing who the gift was for – I think he was a bit shocked that she could be seeing anyone, really, because she was always so obviously stricken with him – and it was for _him_. And he…he was so shocked, and she, again – your Mum, who was always so quiet and seemingly let him walk all over her – she called him out on it. In front of everyone. And he apologized!"

She seemed to think that explained everything. Lydia did not quite understand. "He…apologized?" She prompted, pouring herself another cup of tea.

"Yes! Amazing, isn't it? I think we were all quite shocked. Of course, your father is much better at apologizing, now. Your mother changed him for the better, in that way, I think. You should've seen the look on John's face! Oh, he was a bit put off, you could tell. And that's when he first started suspecting…though he wasn't _sure,_ mind you, but he did suspect - and the rest of us, your father included, wouldn't realize it for some time. Ah, well. You've finished the digestives already? Would you like more, dear?"

"Um…yes, please," Lydia said, hoping that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mention her suddenly voracious appetite to her father. _But for goodness sake, she had to eat something sometime to avoid shriveling up like raisin._

And so they spent the majority of the day talking, Lydia asking questions about her parent's relationship, and Mrs. Hudson telling her, interspersing with her own varied commentary on either her parents, or John's, or her own love life. Lydia found she didn't mind – the woman was a goldmine of information.

And so Lydia learned about the apology, about her mother and father's strange, seemingly one-sided friendship, and about a man named Moriarty who was the evil equivalent of her father. She learned that he had threatened all of Sherlock's friends except for her mother (Mrs. Hudson never said her name - _interesting_, thought Lydia) because Moriarty apparently didn't believe her Mum to be a threat to anyone.

"And so your father…well, you've seen in the papers, in the scrapbook I have."

Gigi had told Lydia about this, so she was prepared. "He…faked his death? To…trick Moriarty?" She asked quietly.

"Yes, and your mother helped. Of course, we didn't know about it at the time, that she'd helped him – no one did, no one really ever did, except for the few of us after the fact. And poor John, heartbroken – and myself, and Greg, of course. Your father's brother – your Uncle Mycroft - was a stone, couldn't squeeze a tear out of him – but then, he knew about it the whole time, as well." Mrs. Hudson shook her head, obviously feigning anger, because the smile in her eyes gave her away. "Those boys," she said, as though she were scolding them.

"Well, your father was away for nearly two years – and Mo…hmm. Molly - your Mum's name, dear, in case they haven't told you – you certainly at least deserve to know her first name - well, she kept track of us. She cried, too, at the funeral – and I do feel bad about it now, though, Gigi dear – but I judged her a bit, for it. I thought – poor dear, hopefully now she can move on from that ridiculous crush." Mrs. Hudson shook her head and frowned at the wall, thinking of a memory past. "Well, anyway, after the funeral, she still came around – to me, to John, saw Greg at the hospital, with work – we met at the pub a few times, had an evening out now and then. She was…well, she was lovely," Mrs. Hudson said determinedly. "She was quiet and listened, and told horrid jokes, and again – at the time, I felt – I thought – _what an awkward sort_ – but – the more I think back on it, I realized that…she was, for the most part, doing it on purpose. Gave us something to think about, besides losing Sherlock. She was a great friend to all of us, dear." She smiled kindly at Lydia.

Lydia, however, already knew that her mother was awkward and kind and selfless and brilliant, and was eager to find out more about her romantic encounters with her father. By now, the two ladies had moved on to dusting and vacuuming Sherlock's flat – _about time, dear, and you're just the one to help me_ – and so they worked, and chatted, and Lydia found that as long as she was learning something important, she didn't mind cleaning nearly as much as she did at home. Besides, she was finding all sorts of interesting knick-knacks and journals, and learned quite a bit about her father as they cleaned the flat.

"So," Lydia asked, after a moment of doing her best to clean dust off of a strangely fuzzy carving on one of the bookshelves, "Mum was an amazing woman, a great friend. What was Dad doing, all that time away?"

Mrs. Hudson paused, and frowned. "I still don't really know, dear. None of us do. He says he was 'dismantling Moriarty's network'. Criminal network, apparently." Mrs. Hudson shuddered. "Like he was some sort of spider with a web. Make of that what you will," she said breezily, as they moved into the bathroom, and Mrs. Hudson handed Lydia a sponge. "Scrub the sink, dear, and I'll do the toilet and tub."

"So…Dad was taking on the criminals of the world alone?!" Lydia asked, duly impressed.

"Well, I'm sure he had your Uncle Mycroft's help. The man seems to have a lot of connections," Mrs. Hudson muttered. "Anyway," she said, quickly moving on, "the point of this all is your parents, yes? Well, your father comes back nearly two years later – because it's all supposed to be done, all of it – and he waltzes in on us on one of our pub nights, disguised as one of the bartenders, and there was very nearly a brawl – your Uncle John was quite put out, I assure you – your father was never one for tact – John managed to get a few good knocks in, and stormed out." Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "The rest of us were quite shocked ourselves. I screamed when I saw him – silly me, thinking of ghosts at my age – and didn't stop until your father rolled his eyes and hugged me and reassured me that he was, in fact, alive, and that he had never actually died. Greg used some colorful language to describe your father's reappearance, and gave him a rather rough hug, but there were tears in his eyes. And your Mum – well, dear, that was when _Greg_ started seeing something, there, though I – and your father - were still fairly clueless. I can see it now in retrospect, but I was…not looking for it, then, you know."

Lydia nodded, silently willing to continue on with the parent part of the story. "What did…Greg see?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "There your mother was – tears in her eyes, too, though that didn't surprise me – we were all crying, by then – and she was smiling, in her quiet way, and the thing was – he was smiling back. Your father wasn't much for eye contact, dear. Too intimate – or else it irritated him because he 'saw too much of their stupidity'. Actually, now that I think about it – he insulted everyone's intelligence, at one point or another. Me, John, Greg, even your Uncle Mycroft – but I cannot, for the life of me, remember a single instance where he insulted your mother's intelligence. Well, I'm off track again, aren't I? While I'm at it – roll up the cord for that vacuum, dear, we're done. Are you hungry for lunch?"

"Famished," Lydia said truthfully, as she helped Mrs. Hudson collect their cleaning things. "So that was what Greg saw?" She asked doubtfully. "Eye contact?"

"Oh, it was more than that, dear," Mrs. Hudson continued. "You see, your father smiles at you quite frequently. Never smiled like that, before. Like a statue, he was – a funny, brilliant statue. On occasion he would smile, but it was usually…sarcastic. For show. Or for a particularly gruesome or interesting murder case. But you know _that_ smile, dear."

Lydia nodded. She didn't, but she figured it was best to go along.

Mrs. Hudson continued as she made them some sandwiches and cut up some vegetables and fruit to eat with lunch. "Anyways, he smiled at her. Greg noticed, as I said. He really, truly smiled at her. And, the thing was…he didn't touch her. Well. He didn't hug her, like he did me, or Greg, or eventually even your Uncle John, when he came 'round. Just smiled, and then kissed her on the cheek. And Greg…well. We all thought that was odd. Especially when your Mum didn't start stuttering. Blushed like a fiend, of course – never could stop blushing, your mother – but she didn't stutter. Just said, clear as day – 'Welcome home, Sherlock', and smiled back. And then…she patted his arm, and told him she'd talk John 'round, that we all would – and we all nodded like sheep – still a bit surprised at the whole…unprovoked kiss on the cheek. But nothing changed after that…except, of course, that your Uncle John _did_ come 'round, and Molly – your Mum - only came around once in a while, and Sherlock only saw her at the hospital, and we thought that that was the end of that…that everything would return to normal."

Lydia nodded, munching on a carrot stick. "So then what happened?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Let an old lady take a breather, dear," she admonished lightly, and took a few moments to enjoy her own lunch in peace and quiet.

After a few moments, she resumed her story. "Little did we know…" she paused dramatically, obviously enjoying having an audience. "Little did we know, that someone else was watching the pub, that night, and _also_ saw that kiss on the cheek. Moriarty's right hand man, Moran – the only man Sherlock didn't know about. And Moriarty had given Moran a plan, for revenge."

"So he kidnapped Mum?!" Lydia asked, jumping the gun, and eager to connect what she knew about her parents to Mrs. Hudson's story. _Darn it, Lydia_, she scolded herself, when she saw the startled look on Mrs. Hudson's face.

"I mean," Lydia hastened to correct herself, "It just seems like that's something…that would happen. It's like…a fairytale. Or…or…a…film. You know."

"Well…" Mrs. Hudson said, looking at her strangely. "Yes. Eventually, yes…but he kidnapped John, first. Your father, with your mother's help – and Greg's – found him in a matter of hours. But later that evening, in the hubbub surrounding John's reappearance – your mother was taken. And it took your father two days to find her."

_You don't know this story, _Lydia reminded herself. "Then what happened?"

And Mrs. Hudson told her the rest of the story Lydia knew – that her father had rescued her Mum, and she'd kissed him at the hospital and forgotten, and he'd tried to help her remember the kiss, and they didn't stop kissing for ages. "That was when I suspected it, of course. Walked in on them kissing a few times…shocked me, dear. Ah, but your father…it still took him a bit to realize that all that kissing meant he _loved _her. He was the last to know."

Both of them sighed, and sat silently for a moment, smiling, their own pictures in their heads. And then Mrs. Hudson continued – "It was a lovely few months. Took a bit of adjusting, on all sides – but your father could be romantic, when he wanted to be. Shocked me, really – and your poor Uncle John – ah, well. Nevermind. And your Mum grew quite a backbone, where it concerned your father. They balanced everything quite nicely."

"What…what did my…dad…what did he like about my mother?" Lydia asked, quietly again.

"Hmm," Mrs. Hudson thought. "Well, I suppose, like I said before, her intelligence. Never insulted her once, in that way. Well…that I know of. And she was…for the most part…incredibly kind to him. And understanding. Didn't try to…change him, though he did change a bit. If you want to know more about that, though, I think you'd have to ask your father. Or John."

Mrs. Hudson finished off the afternoon playing Cluedo and cards and telling Lydia about her parent's short courtship (_only a few months – because when your father realized he loved her – what that actually meant, dear – well. Your father never does anything halfway, does he?)_, and her father's two proposals when he finally realized that he _did_ love her, (_he made a real mess of the first one, Gigi_), and their marriage, and the announcement that her Mum was pregnant, and it was all very lovely.

And then she just stopped. Mrs. Hudson ended the story there. No mention of twins (though Lydia didn't expect that), and no mention of anything that had happened afterwards. Just…stopped.

Lydia blinked for a moment in the strange and yet somehow welcome silence after the constant chatter of the day.

After a moment, though – she couldn't help but ask, quietly – "And then what happened?"

Mrs. Hudson blinked back at her, and smiled a sad smile, and shook her head. "And then your father made a mess of things in a way that was too big for your mother to look past, though she did contribute to it, in her own way - and then you were born, and then your mother left."

Lydia frowned. That…that wasn't enough. It was Gigi's job to find out why they broke up…but still. She couldn't imagine her mother just…walking out. "What? She just…left? I don't…"

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly at her again, and patted her hand. "I think that's enough about your parents for today, dear. It's…it's not my place to tell you what went wrong. The romance…well, your father would never tell it like it was. So I don't mind telling you that. But it was…it was a rather big mess. On both sides. I don't mean to make her out to be in the wrong, but - they both were. They _both_ were," she said firmly, and began cleaning up the cards, as Lydia had just won for the third time in a row. "But their story _was_ quite romantic – unrequited love for so long, and all that. And Gigi - if I didn't know better, I'd say you were counting cards," she laughed as she changed the subject. "You are incredibly lucky."

Lydia blushed, and laughed herself. "Yeah…lucky. And thanks. For telling me…all that. About my Mum and Dad."

"You're welcome, dear. Heaven knows a little girl needs to know about her mother. Just don't…tell your father. Well…tell him, but not tonight. Save it for a good mood, dear, okay?"

"Okay," agreed Lydia, her mind already racing with ideas for working her parent's history into their reunion.

* * *

_Napa Valley, California_

About the time Lydia was heating leftover take-away for dinner with Mrs. Hudson and waiting excitedly for her father to return, Gigi was waking up from her first night at home with her mother.

She woke to the smell of bacon sizzling, and sweet things baking, and she smiled at the ceiling. Somehow, Mary and her mother had gotten her into bed without waking her, and she'd slept solidly through the whole night, and into a good part of the morning.

Sighing and burying her head into Lydia's pillow, she enjoyed the feeling of being a daughter in a mother's home for just a few extra minutes, before carefully getting out of bed. She made the bed carefully behind her, admiring the worn quilt atop Lydia's bed.

After getting ready for the day, she bounded downstairs, tying her now-shortened hair into a tidy ponytail behind her. "Morning!" She called.

"Good morning, sleepy head!" Called Mary from the kitchen. "Made your favorite this morning! Cinnamon bun pancakes with bacon, and milk, and a little fresh pineapple juice for a kick. You woke up just in time. I have to leave for work in a few. Your mum's outside, getting ready for a trip to the cemetery today. Tradition, and all." Mary shook her head and grinned at Gigi as she came into the kitchen.

"Wow! Brushed your hair and everything. Taught you a lot at that camp, did they?" Mary teased as Gigi took a seat.

"Um…heh. Yeah." Gigi laughed it off as she took a seat at the table, staring at the pile of pancakes and bacon in front of her. She smiled half-heartedly at the food in front of her, and absentmindedly began to nibble a bit of bacon and sip at some juice.

After a moment, Molly came into the kitchen, beaming at her daughter, wearing old khakis and a bright jumper with apples on it, and began packing a few things into a small cooler. "Morning, Lydia!" She smiled, and kissed Gigi on the head. "I've already packed up the gardening tools. I thought we'd find a really awful one today and make it shine. We can leave as soon as you're done."

Gigi quickly swallowed her last bit of juice, having finished exactly one slice of bacon. "Great!" She cried. "I'm done. Let's go!"

And she was out the door before either woman could comment on her lack of appetite.

* * *

Molly did find a really awful gravesite to fix up. The head stone was crumbling, the weeds were overgrown, and compared to the large wreath on the grave a few sites over…it was really pretty pathetic.

Gigi and Molly spent the morning doing hard labor – weeding around and gently wiping off the headstone, and collecting a few beautiful wildflowers to arrange around the grave. It was hard work – and different than the work Gigi was accustomed to at home (she only ever really cleaned with Mrs. Hudson; gardening was not something either female took a strong liking to, and there was very little space for it.)

As they worked, they talked idly of books and music, television shows and work, movies and jokes, and Gigi's plans for the rest of the summer. To her credit, Gigi did an admirable job appearing very much like Lydia, with a smidgen less sass and a whole lot less fidgeting.

Molly noticed, but thought to herself – _my daughter's growing up_. She had other things on her mind, after all. And she was hoping that this new, calmer version of her daughter would somehow take the news of her recent engagement easier. Still hadn't worn the ring, yet, because Lydia was bound to notice something like that, and flashing a ring in front of her daughter was certainly not the way to announce such a drastic change for their lives.

By the time lunchtime came around, Gigi found that she did not have to fake an appetite.

"There's my girl," Molly said, smiling as Gigi tucked into a second sandwich. They had just finished discussing 'Lydia's' plans to catch a meteor shower later in July, and as they were discussing the future, Molly decided that now would be as good a time as any to bring up the subject of something else that would be affecting their future.

"So, Lydia," Molly began. She looked at the headstone in front of them, and took a deep breath – "Speaking of the future…um. I know, in the past, I've dated a few men, and they've all…fallen short, of my expectations."

Gigi froze, the latest bite of sandwich suddenly feeling a bit too large and scratchy in her throat. _Distract distract distract. _She swallowed, and snorted, attempting to be very _Lydia_. "You…you can say _that_ again, Mum. After that last one…what was his name? David? The one who…" she racked her brain, remembering Lydia's explanations of the running jokes the three females kept on the men her mother dated – "-who _hypothesized_ that one of your corpses was killed by a _meat dagger _made of his own bone?" And even Gigi couldn't help but giggle at that one, because it sounded as ridiculous as some of the old horror movies Molly had rented for them to watch.

Molly laughed at that, as well. "Yes, well, he was…pretty ridiculous. He was a nice man, though."

"He was a _stupid_ man," Gigi-as-Lydia corrected.

Molly sobered. "Lydia, that's not polite. He just didn't understand my work."

"Or anything about human anatomy," Gigi grumbled under her breath. She may not _love_ science, but she'd learned all she felt she needed to about the human body, working on occasion with her father. And anyone who knew _anything_ about human anatomy never would have even made the suggestion of a meat dagger and been _serious_ about it.

Molly smiled. "Yes, well, that's not a problem with Tom." She watched her daughter carefully.

Gigi looked up at her sharply, her heart thudding with fear. "Tom?" She repeated, attempting to sound cool and detached. "Did you…find someone else to date while I was gone? Trying it out again?" She tried _very _hard to sound amused.

"Yes," Molly said quietly, pressing on. "And…I really like him, Lydia."

Gigi blinked, and then rolled her eyes, but it came out very half-heartedly. _Come on, Gigi – work this attitude. For Lydia. For Dad._ "Isn't…isn't that what you always say?" She said, cringing internally just a bit at her own rudeness.

Molly frowned. "No, Ms. Sass, it is not. And I don't appreciate your tone. He's actually quite smart. He has his own doctorate in bio-medicine, and he's actually very supportive of my work. He was thrilled when he found out I got the grant to continue my research in cellular regeneration. And…well, he's not particularly fond of the corpses, Lydia, but we can't all have cast-iron stomachs, you know." She teased her daughter, tickling her in the stomach.

Gigi couldn't help but giggle, though she still swatted her mother's hand away. _Not good not good not good!_ She screamed in her head.

"And," Molly continued, "he's a perfect gentleman. He's already taken me to a concert – a _proper _concert, Lydia – one with an orchestra - and to see films. We've even gone to a drive-in a few times. We've gone to a conference together, and the beach, and museums, and just visited at each other's houses. Mary likes him," she said, gently laying a hand on her daughter's arm, then thought better of her assessment. "Well," she amended, "Mary doesn't _dislike_ him. So I suppose you could say he's Mary-approved." She tried to coax a smile out of her daughter.

Gigi was still frozen in horror and frustration, scolding herself harshly in her mind. _Not good not good not good!_ She felt badly, because Tom…he _did_ sound like a …decent sort, but he wasn't _Dad._ And really, compared to Dad…he sounded _boring_. She hadn't even met Tom, but she already _hated_ the man for interfering with her and Lydia's plans. And really, she felt warm with embarrassment and anger at _herself_, because it wasn't in her nature to hate people without at least a proper introduction, and it wasn't in her nature to be callous and rude to her mother (especially one she'd just met), and she felt angry that time that could have been spent getting to know her mother would now have to be spent getting to know _Tom_ and fretting over whether or not it was serious. (Although, after witnessing that little finger twisting the night before, Gigi suspected it was.) And finally – it was not in her nature to laugh in the face of adversity and sass her way out of (and into) trouble.

_Well, it's Lydia's way,_ she thought forcefully. _And you're Lydia, now, Gigi, so suck up those tears and make a witty remark._

It took her a moment, but she found her reply soon enough. Rapidly blinking back tears and jumping up to gather her garden trowel, she flashed what she hoped was a cheeky grin at her mother. "Really? _Mary_ approved? Well, that doesn't mean anything. You've seen her taste in men, too, Mum. Nope, can't trust Mary's judgment, there!" Gigi forced a laugh. _She hoped Mary had terrible taste in men, because that's something she couldn't remember discussing with Lydia, right now. _ "I'll have to meet him eventually, I suppose, and give you a _proper_ verdict. Until then – I've got my energy back, now – let's clean up another grave! I thought I saw one back that-a-way when we came in!"

And before her mother could get another word in, Gigi was off.

"Wait!" Molly cried, hastily collecting the remainder of their picnic lunch and tools. "I didn't…you…" She sighed. "You're going to meet him tonight," she said softly, and shook her head as she started after her daughter.

* * *

_London, England_

Mrs. Hudson and Lydia were watching reruns of _Doc Martin_ on the telly in Mrs. Hudson's flat when Sherlock and John returned to Baker Street. The two girls grinned at each other over bowls of ice cream as they heard the two men arguing on their way in.

"Sherlock! The point is, you can't just _accuse_ people of incest!" John shouted angrily, and slammed the door behind him.

"Well, I wouldn't have had to _accuse_ anyone of anything if they hadn't lied to me about the daughter's involvement in the case! You could _clearly _tell from the shadows before the surveillance tape was cut off that she was _in _the safe room _before_ her brother. No, Arthur was protecting her. How was I supposed to know it was because he was in love with her apparently criminal _best friend_, unless I saw his reaction to my _crude accusation_? Sometimes the shortest path to the truth-"

"-is socially unacceptable, Sherlock!" John roared, and slammed the door to his own flat.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson frowned. "We'd better intervene before I have to get another new door."

Before they could rise from their place on the sofa, however, Sherlock had already entered Mrs. Hudson's flat, scanning over the two ladies with those keen eyes of his. "Genevieve, excellent. Cleaning, Mrs. Hudson? Really? Genevieve, you're too generous with our housekeeper. It's her _job_ to-"

"Not your _housekeep,_ Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, but her eyes were smiling. "Now take your daughter home and spend some time with her. I've had enough child-minding for the day." But she winked at Lydia, to let her know she was teasing.

Sherlock grinned at Lydia then, and she had the unusual urge to throw her arms around his waist and never let go. Strange, considering the fact that she was an expert at maneuvering out of her mother's embraces.

It took an awful lot of self-control for her to simply walk over to her father and stand on tip-toe to kiss him on the cheek. "How was the case, Dad?" She asked lightly, as they made their way up the stairs.

"Excellent, excellent. A solid seven. Just need to run a few tests at Bart's tomorrow for proof. Would you-" and here, he gave Lydia a sideways glance "-like to accompany me there, tomorrow, Genevieve?"

And Lydia couldn't stop the smile blooming across her face. _This is a dream come true._ "Sure, Dad. That…that sounds lovely. To spend time with you, I mean." And she found his hand and squeezed it once.

"Yes," he said, voice slightly unsure. "Yes."

_About her wanting to go to Barts? About her wanting to spend time with him? About…her in general?_ Lydia wasn't sure exactly what.

He cleared his throat once. "I…apologize for taking on a case so soon after your homecoming. It was…"

"No, no," Lydia assured him, squeezing his hand once more, before releasing it. "It's okay Dad. It _was _a seven." And she grinned at him as she flopped onto the couch and stretched. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

He hung up his coat and scarf, adjusted his shirtsleeves, and sat down. He then began a rather detailed account of meeting Mr. Holder, and his son Arthur, and the daughter, Hailey, and reviewing the room. He explained that he'd looked at the surveillance footage and determined that Hailey must have been in the room at the time the safe was opened, _before_ Arthur arrived. He explained his deductions upon meeting the sister, that she had a best friend who'd been their the evening before, as well – a young lady named Daphne, who'd had the solid alibi of being soundly asleep at the time of the burglary. Surveillance footage had proven this. He'd also researched the two women and discovered that the young Ms. Daphne had a connection to a rather shady character, a Sir George Burnwell, with quite a lot of debt.

It served to follow, based on other evidence found in the room – _window had been opened the night before, lack of outsider's fingerprints on the safe, and deductions of the persons present in the home_ – that Daphne was pregnant with Sir Burnwell's child, and that he had somehow convinced her that in order to marry him, she had to provide him with a suitable dowry. (_Old fashioned nonsense, Genevieve, never get caught up with a man who thinks you need to pay to marry him. Besides, he obviously only wanted the money to pay down his debts. England's history is fraught with intelligent women marrying great fools. Don't be one of them.) _Daphne confided in Hailey, who'd taken it upon herself to assist her friend with her problem. Hailey had snuck into the safe, and had somehow gotten several beryls out of the crown and passed them to someone waiting on the lawn below (most likely a staff member, paid off), before being intercepted by Arthur.

"The only problem that remains is this, Genevieve – how did the coronet become so disfigured? Hailey on her own could never have disfigured the crown in such a way. Even a struggle with Arthur could not have damaged it so thoroughly." He showed her the photographs from earlier. "But I realized that if the metal had been softened – softened, somehow, to remove the jewels, and then fought over – _that_ could have caused the damage and twisting we saw. Any hypotheses, Genevieve?"

Lydia thought for a moment, truly enjoying herself. "Well," she began thoughtfully. "If it had been heated – because that's the easiest way to soften metal – if it had been heated – wouldn't it have…burned the person who smushed it?"

Sherlock's face twitched a bit at her use of the word _smushed_, but he nodded in approval. "Exactly. Excellent, Genevieve. So – no burns, no heat. Any other hypotheses?"

Lydia sat, frowning. "Maybe…some sort of…chemical?"

"Exactly. And if the chemical was _removed_ before Mr. Holder arrived, and the metal re-hardened, there would be very few traces of said chemical left. However, whatever was used to _clean_ the crown would probably have plenty of the chemical left on it, because of the time frame between Arthur's discovery of his sister and Mr. Holder's arrival to the room. I simply had to determine who Arthur was protecting _more_ – his sister, or Daphne – to determine where the likely hiding spot for the cleaning cloth was."

And Sherlock continued, explaining that Arthur's reaction to his accusation confirmed that he'd been in love with Daphne himself, and in a (_rather stupid_) chivalrous mood, had done his best to fix and clean the crown in the five minutes before his father arrived and his sister disappeared to tell her friend the latest development. He'd been caught, and both his misplaced love and his missing right hand led Sherlock to find the cleaning implement sealed in a bag in a heating duct near the floor in the very room the crown was stolen from.

"I have it here," Sherlock announced proudly, showing Lydia the handkerchief. "Tomorrow, we will go to Bart's, and discover the chemical compound used to soften the metal in the crown, which will lead us to Sir Burnwell."

"_Amazing_," Lydia whispered, half to herself. _Tomorrow was going to be the Best Day Ever. _

* * *

_Napa Valley, California_

As Lydia was giving her father a kiss on the cheek before rushing off to bed to dream about the scientific discoveries to be made the next day, Gigi was arriving home with Molly from their day out, only to find a strange man, dressed casually in jeans and a polo, in the living room.

There was something disconcerting with him from the start – the way he smiled politely, close-lipped, at her as they were introduced, the way he ran his hand carelessly through his dark hair, the way he winked one of his friendly blue eyes at her as he made some sort of joke Gigi didn't quite pick up on, so focused was she on trying to pinpoint what it was about him she disliked the most – so that she didn't respond to him until her mother nudged her from behind.

"Well, go on then," Molly whispered, playful nervousness well-hidden in her voice. "Say hello to Tom."

"Hellooo," Gigi drawled carefully, keeping her hands firmly at her sides. "Tom."

"Lydia," he said kindly. "I've heard quite a lot about you. You and your mother are quite close! It's easy to see that good looks run in the family." Again, with that _smile_. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Reluctantly, Gigi reached out to shake the hand he'd offered to her. He shook it firmly, and raised his eyebrows in some sort of unspoken question to her mother, over her head. He must not have liked the answer, because his face fell slightly in disappointment. "Well, I'll help Mary with dinner while the two of you clean yourselves up. Out…cleaning gravesites again, Molly?" He asked, and his tone was something else that Gigi did not care for. _Arrogant, but trying to sound charming_, she decided. _Fake_. Ugh, she did not _like_ him!

She was in her own room, showered and putting on a new set of clothes a short time later, when she realized _why_ she had so disliked him from the beginning, and it wasn't _only_ that he arrived in her life at the perfectly wrong moment, courting her mother just as she'd hoped to reunite her Mum with her Dad.

_His dark hair was just a little too short, and the ends stuck out strangely, as though they'd be curly if he let them grow longer._

_His blue eyes were too dark._

_His face was too soft, and his nose too prominent._

_He wore jeans and a polo._

He was a terrifyingly horrible, close-but-not-ever-quite-there, suburban _copy of her father_.

And she sat down on Lydia's bed in a dazed sort of wonder, because…what was her mother _doing_? Did she even _see_ the resemblance herself?

Because now that Gigi had made the connection…she could picture it in her head – Tom's face elongating somewhat, his eyes lightening, his hair lengthening, dressed sharply in a suit – and morphing, grotesquely, into her father.

She was distracted from her disturbing waking nightmare with a knock on the door.

"Lydia?" her mother called. "Are you ready for dinner? Tom's helped Mary fix some of his famous chili. It's really good. And Mary made cornbread. I think you'll enjoy it."

"Umm…yeah Mum. Just…just a minute." And Gigi finished combing her still-damp hair and warily trudged down to the kitchen for supper.

* * *

They ate in the dining room.

_They only eat in the dining room on the most special of occasions_, Gigi remembered with dread. The only thing keeping her from _actually_ throwing up was the tiny, threadbare hope that he had not yet proposed, because her mother was not wearing a ring, and had not said anything about an engagement, yet.

But Gigi wasn't stupid. She knew she had to observe – to _notice_ things, and so, to the best of her ability – she watched, and she waited.

She observed how Tom pulled out the chair for both her _and_ Mum, how he thanked Mary profusely for her amazing cornbread, and asked for the recipe. _Overly flattering._

She noticed how Mary kept watching the two of them herself, pleasant neutrality displayed evenly across her features at all times, smiling when politeness deemed it appropriate and necessary.

She saw how her mother smiled warmly at Tom, and how he smiled warmly at her, and how he found dozens of tiny, unspoken excuses to touch her – _a fingertip on her shirtsleeve, here – a nudge with his elbow, there _– but how neither of their smiles _quite_ reached their eyes. Well…at least Tom's didn't.

_His eyes don't crinkle at the corners, like Dad's_, she thought smugly to herself.

She noticed how stiff Tom became after he tried, time after time, to initiate a conversation with Gigi, who took it upon herself to be as cool and fake as she perceived him to be (without being outright hostile, of course. Being sent away from the table would have been _unbearable_). Besides, time spent talking was time wasted when she could be _watching_.

"So, how did you like camp?" And a smile that didn't reach his eyes, again.

_But not a nervous one, _Gigi decided. No – it was more of a..._testing the waters_ smile. A smug, _I'm going to win you over, too_ smile. "It was fun."

"You know, I attended quite a few camps back in my day. I've sponsored one near here – a science camp. Your mother said you were pretty interested in science, Lydia. I helped design the curriculum. D'you think you'd be interested in taking a look at it? I could even get you in for a day, if you liked it." A smile slightly exaggerated now, probably for her mother's benefit.

"Thank you. What are your qualifications?" She attempted another spoonful of chili, but her stomach, already tied up in knots over meeting this suitor of her Mum's, revolted at the smell. _Fine, then_. Serves him right if he thinks his chili tastes terrible. Besides, refusing his food seemed like a very Lydia move.

"No, no Molly – it's fine," he hastened to assure her mother, who was giving her a dirty look across the table. "She's…fine. A real firecracker you've got! I graduated from CalSci with a masters in bio-technology, and then went on to earn my doctorate at the same school, as I worked at the hospital nearby. Do I live up to your standards, Ms. Hooper?" His eyes were slightly narrowed, now, despite the charming, nervous smile still on his face, and she sensed more than heard the sneer in them. Her mother and Mary didn't seem to notice at all. _Maybe she'd just imagined them._

"We'll see." _Smile, Gigi. Lessen the blow. You have to make it through dessert. Keep sizing up the competition.  
_

And if her constant staring at Tom made him a bit…_twitchy_…well, that was just icing on the cake.

* * *

Later that evening, after Gigi-as-Lydia had been coerced into doing the dishes with Mary as Molly bid Tom good-bye, all three ladies sat on the front porch, quietly taking in the summer evening around them.

"Well," Molly said after a moment, placing her hand over Gigi's open palm, who instinctively curled her fingers around her mother's – "what did you think of him? Of Tom?"

Gigi frowned for a moment. She knew Lydia was known for brutal honesty – she'd been on the receiving end of it more than once – and she certainly made enough observations over dinner to stack a case for her dislike against the man – but she also thought that perhaps outright attacking the man would just make her Mum defensive. So she settled.

"Oh, I don't know, Mum. I barely know the man. He's…I mean…he's pretty decent looking. Nice teeth, nice…eyes. Decent cook, though not as good as Mary," she said, nudging the woman with her shoulder, playing cool indifference while her heart and stomach were twisting with worry. "But really…I can't give a solid verdict until I have more data."

Molly and Mary exchanged a knowing look over her head, and Gigi knew she'd hit it on the head. _At least I make a decent Lydia, even if nothing else is going quite right today._

"Well," Molly said slowly, smiling at her daughter. "I'm…hoping that you'll have a long time to accumulate more data. In fact, I need to tell you that-"

But she was absentmindedly rubbing that ring finger again, and Gigi noticed, and panicked, and yawned loudly, yanking her hand out of her mother's, and said, in a slightly wavering American accent – "Oh, I'm quite tired, after all of that work today. It was lovely though, Mum. Really…great. Thank you! Um…good night, Mary. Night, Mum."

And she kissed them each on the cheek in rapid succession, leaving them with baffled expressions on their faces in regard to her language. Gigi ran into the house and up the stairs two at a time before locking herself in her room.

_She needed to call Lydia, immediately_.

* * *

_London, England_

Genevieve Holmes and Lydia Hooper both had mobile phones at camp (both parents had provided their daughters with one at age 10, for practical purposes), and had exchanged phones (and memorized each other's numbers, to prevent snooping parents from discovering their scheme too early) with the agreement not to phone each other unless _absolutely necessary_ – i.e., in case of a mega-emergency.

So Lydia was a bit startled when Gigi's phone rang at five a.m. only a few days after returning from camp.

Floundering in her sheets and bedspread, she scrambled to find the phone in her bedside stand. After a moment, she found it and quickly silenced the ringer, and sat with baited breath for any movement or indication of arousal, on the part of her father downstairs.

Nothing.

Letting out a breath, she answered, and hissed – "_Gigi?_"

"Lydia!" Gigi's voice, relieved, flooded across the line. "How – how's everything going?"

Lydia frowned and rubbed sleep from her eyes, doing her best to keep her voice down. It was a bit hoarse with sleep, still. "_Fine,_ Gigi…I mean, better than fine…Dad's _amazing!_ He solved a mystery today. A whole mystery! A…seven, he said! In less than twelve hours! We're going to Bart's tomorrow, and I'm going to-"

"Great, great. We have a problem," Gigi whispered on her end of the line.

"What? What do you mean? You didn't start suddenly speaking English English, did you?" Lydia grumped.

"No! Of course not. Well…maybe a teeny, tiny bit, tonight. But I have an excuse. Mum's got a new boyfriend, Lydia, and-"

"Oh, is _that_ all?" Lydia yawned. "Don't worry about that. He'll be gone in a week or two. They usually are."

"Not _this_ one," Gigi said fiercely. "I've been watching them today, Lydia, and Mum's serious about this one. I think he might propose, if he hasn't-"

"What?!" Lydia yelped, then paused, hand over the speaker, and listened again. No movement from downstairs. _Whew_. "What do you mean? Mum is _not_ the re-marrying type. I mean, not the re-marrying anyone but _Dad_ type. She's never been serious about any man before. And even if he proposes," she continued stubbornly, convincing herself, drowning out Gigi's protests about Mum's subtle finger movements with a fierce whisper - "she'll say _no_. No way, no _way_ Mum would find a guy and get engaged in _eight weeks_."

She ignored the little voice in her head, that sounded suspiciously like Mrs. Hudson's, reminding her that her mother did indeed date her father for a measly two and half months before getting engaged to, and marrying, _him_.

_But she'd known him forever, before that_ – she argued soundly, shutting up the voice inside her.

That was a mistake.

"Gigi, I've got to go," Lydia whispered again, trying to sound reassuring. "Dad's probably going to be up soon, and I need sleep if I'm going to make the most of my trip to Bart's, tomorrow. Don't worry about it; just be stubborn and sassy about their relationship and do your best to drive Tom away – the boyfriends usually don't like me. Mum and Mary won't be surprised by that. And don't call again unless it's an _actual_ actual emergency. Love you bye!"

Lydia fell asleep rather quickly after that, but it took Gigi a long time to fall asleep that night.

* * *

A floor below Lydia, her father was as wakeful as his daughter that was currently, unbeknownst to him, across the ocean.

Genevieve had changed in the eight weeks she'd been away at camp. There had been several inconsistencies in her behavior since returning, and although taken singularly, they may not mean much – Sherlock was _convinced_ something was amiss.

_Inconsistency 1: Increased deductive reasoning skills and interest in mysteries._

She _could_ have come to love mysteries and she _could _have developed a keen interest in and skill for understanding his work while she was away…and while he'd have liked to think that was true, he knew that it was very unlike Gigi to change so, in such a short time. She was a constant in his life, much the way her…_nope. Not going there, now._

_Inconsistency 2: Increased appetite._

He'd noticed Mrs. Hudson's bin was nearly 25% more full than usual when he returned from the case with John, today. Mrs. Hudson would not have eaten all that food herself, and there were no signs of other visitors to the flat. Genevieve must have eaten most of that food. This was the least concerning inconsistency, as she _was_ a growing girl, and a growth spurt could easily explain her increased appetite.

_Inconsistency 3: Messiness._

Genevieve had always been incredibly neat. Even as a toddler, she didn't like her hands dirty, and liked to line up her toys as she played. Mrs. Hudson was thrilled, and had always used this trait to her advantage. But when he arrived home today – Gigi's bed was made haphazardly, and the shelves that Mrs. Hudson left in Gigi's care were dusted very poorly. Again, very unlike Gigi to suddenly care so little about the areas she was given charge of.

_Inconsistency 4: The phone call._

Genevieve never received phone calls after 9 p.m., but Sherlock distinctly heard the sounds of his daughter receiving and answering a phone call around 4 a.m.. Although she _could _have made a friend at camp from a different world locale who decided to call her at _4 a.m._ (and that _was_ the most likely scenario) – who would be calling her at such a time? Either the child was stupid, and did not realize it was 4 a.m. in London, or else they were very smart and sneaky, and knew that 4 a.m. was when Gigi was most likely to be able to speak without being overheard. And though he knew she'd answered the call, he could not hear what she was discussing.

He scowled.

_Finally – Inconsistency 5: The haircut._

That blasted haircut.

It was almost like Genevieve…his Gigi…it was _almost_ like she was another person.

But his mind refused to acknowledge the most likely – the most _probable_ – possibility.

Even if it was staring him straight in the face.

Quite literally.

Because after Molly Hooper had left him years ago – there was one thing that even _he_ could not manage to get rid of.

Because to search for it and find it, even to discard it, would be to admit that it bothered him.

That he still cared.

That it still _mattered_.

Every time he even thought of getting rid of that blasted circle of metal, he was reminded of something Molly said, that he _could not delete_.

_She'd smiled as she admired the ring on his finger on their wedding night. He'd complained, because it was a silly, antiquated tradition. She surprised him by saying he didn't need to wear it, and sliding it off of his finger._

_"Why not?" He'd demanded, slipping his fingers around her hand, stopping her - and realizing as he said it that it was childish, because hadn't he just been complaining about wearing it?_

_"Because I know…I know that for all the pretty symbolism of them, that rings usually serve to alert others that you're…taken. Spoken for. To prevent cheating. But I'm not worried about you cheating, Sherlock. It took you nearly seven years to even notice me," she said with a sort of teasing, happy carelessness. "And…I like looking at it, because…well…it's a circle…" she'd blushed. Always, with that sparkling blush._

_"Yours is also a circle," he'd explained with amazing patience._

_"I know," she'd smiled. "But yours has a tiny imperfection, right here. A defect." She'd motioned to the inside of one edge of the ring._

_He'd looked. It did. Because he'd used the ring box to block a blow from a sword, not two hours before their nuptials. It had sliced through the box and nicked the ring. He'd raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain._

_"It's a beautiful defect."_

_He didn't respond. _

_"It adds character. It makes the ring, which was pretty miraculously special in the first place, even more special. And no matter how many times you turn the ring, no matter how far you travel on it…you always come back around to that imperfection."_

_He'd looked at her, beginning to understand._

_"I'm the imperfection, Sherlock," she'd explained softly, but the soft light of the room they were in had caressed her cheek and cast her lips in shadow and at that moment, she was the farthest thing from an imperfection he'd ever beheld. "I've heard you say for years that sentiment…caring…love…was a chemical defect, found on the losing side," and she'd sat up suddenly, cross-legged on the bed, and the seriousness of her face had made his heart squeeze involuntarily in his chest. _

_She'd continued - "And I'm not…I wasn't deaf, all those years, Sherlock. I know… I know… that you fought…yourself, about me. For a while. And I know…" she'd sighed, struggling. "I know that sometimes, that…feeling – that opinion – that you're safer, more comfortable, without…caring so much…well, it will come back up. It will," she'd insisted. "And it's taken a lot for you…to…realize that for all its 'defectiveness', love can be on the winning side. And I'll do my best to remind you of that – all the time - that caring can be, and often is, on the winning side. That most of the time – love is the reason the winning side is winning." She bent to kiss his cheek and throat, and he swallowed, otherwise motionless. "I know you'll go away sometimes, on cases, and that you'll…doubt all this, sometimes. But I also know you'll always come back to it. To me. I'll always be there – here - a beautifully irritating imperfection that you can never get rid of." She smiled sheepishly, and shrugged. "You're stuck with me."_

_Unable to come up with a reply, he'd kissed her soundly, then, and proceeded to make their wedding night unforgettable. _

_Later, awake, still stuck on the ring analogy, he'd kissed her forehead. "It saved my life, you know." His voice was thick, but he was grateful she wouldn't notice. There were still things…feelings…he wasn't comfortable letting anyone see. Even Molly, yet._

_"What?" She'd mumbled sleepily._

_"The ring. That imperfection…that nick…saved my life."_

_"Mmmhmm," she'd agreed, snuggling closer into him. _

_"Thank you, Molly," he whispered into his sleeping wife's hair. _

After she'd left – after their divorce was finalized, after he stopped returning to her, and she stopped being there for him – he'd flung the ring off her nightstand, where it was kept so she could look at it, and it landed in some dark corner of his room, under some unknown piece of furniture. He'd never gone looking for it, but he knew Mrs. Hudson had never removed it, for all her cleaning.

And as he lay on his side, elbow propped on the bed, staring vacantly at the wall, working out the possible reasons for the sudden changes in his daughter, the ring waited for him, propped up against some trim beneath his dresser.

And so – for not the first time in his life – Sherlock Holmes ignored a very obvious possibility, because it involved sentiment, and caring, and mistakes he'd made in the past.

He wouldn't ignore it for long.


	6. It Comes in Bits and Pieces

**Hi everyone! A few points of interest:**

**I forgot to mention in the last chapter – the case that Sherlock and John solve is "The Beryl Coronet." I just modernized a classic Doyle case. So all credit for awesome cases go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't own the case, or his characters, or Sherlock, or sadly anything as exciting as that. **

**Also, thank you to all of you followers and favoriters, and to guest reviewers – you rock! (And you keep me motivated to continue writing more quickly than I would have if I'd just been on my own!)**

**To Black Night: Thanks for your reviews! Sorry I forgot to reply last time. As mentioned above – the case is "The Beryl Coronet". ****J**** Thanks for reminding me to give credit where credit is due! I'm glad you liked the last chapter. This chapter was also fun to write…I hope you enjoy it!**

**To abbeylovely: Thank you for your kind review! It made me happy. I hope you enjoy this update.**

**Also…apparently, my wacky brain has been transposing the words in the username of my lovely friend OpalSkyLoveDivine. Because it's definitely OpalSkyLoveDivine, NOT OpalSkyDivineLove. Heh. Sorry! Sorry! *blushing awkwardly * I've been known to transpose words sometimes but I've never done it for so long before. Thanks to her for pre-reading, commenting, and helping plan out this lovely, wacky, fun story.**

**Which will start to include some angsty-ness, if you didn't get that hint from the last chapter. Angst-drama-ness is a bit new for me (most of the drama I've written in past stories stems from Moriarty or some other villain and not as a result of a clash between friends/family/love), so please excuse any awkwardness that ensues. Actually, you don't have to excuse it, if you leave me a kind comment that explains how I could improve. **

**Thanks for your continued, kind support!**

* * *

Chapter 6: It Comes in Bits and Pieces

_"Tell me what it is that you see – a world that's filled with endless possibilities?" _– The Alternate Routes, "Nothing More"

* * *

_She isn't dreaming. _

_At least, she doesn't think she is._

_Dreams don't usually last this long._

_Perhaps she's in some sort of a coma, and this magnificent illusion is a sort of gift-slash-apology from the Big Man Upstairs. _

_It's been three weeks, and Sherlock is still snogging her, and not just in empty hospital hallways. _

_He's kissing her in all sorts of not-so-exotic locales. _

_On a stairway. In a cab. At Baker Street. In the lab. _

_She feels a bit like she's in 'Green Eggs and Ham'. Because now that Sherlock has admitted that he…well, technically, he didn't admit anything, in words, but that – that he likes having her around, for many various reasons - Well. He'll have her anywhere._

_It's not that she's just letting him snog her senseless (although that may have happened a time or two). Right after that first, glorious kiss, right after they broke apart, she asked him straight away what he thought he was doing. _

_Well, perhaps not straight away. She had to breathe for a moment before she could form a coherent thought, much less a sentence… _

_"Sherlock," she asks, covering her lips with her fingers – whether it's to prolong the memory of that kiss or to dissuade him from trying it again without explaining himself first is anyone's guess – "Sherlock - ?"_

_Okay, perhaps she still couldn't form a complete sentence._

_And because he is Sherlock, of course he has to stare at her for a moment that is slightly longer than most would deem socially acceptable, and then spew forth a litany of reasons, all of which have something-but-not-quite-everything to do with why he kissed her. _

_But Molly Hooper is not drugged this time, and her recall of the events of the past few weeks and days and minutes connect in a startling array. He must realize this, because he answers all of her questions before she can finish asking them, as though he can now read her mind, as well as her clothes and shoes and coffee and pen and lipstick. Which she decides might be all right, because she still can't seem to form a complete sentence. "W-we -" _

_"Yes."_

_"And I-" _

_"Yes."_

_"And you-" _

_"Yes."_

_"So…this was all -" _

_"Yes."_

_A pause, where she collects her thoughts, and she is finally able to hold onto one, and she manages to ask it without interruption. "What do you want, Sherlock?" _

_It is said kindly, and without expectation or judgment. Because she knows that this isn't about need, or about experimenting, or even about him selfishly asking her to give him what he wants. He is struggling with something. He is on a precipice. She wants to make sure he knows what he wants, before either of them get hurt._

_She always knows exactly what to say._

_He hesitates. He could say any number of things – he could make a joke about wanting something from the lab, though it would probably go over badly – he could make any number of excuses or apologies – there are many ways to put this behind them and stay friends - but he doesn't say any of them. _

_His voice is low when he replies, and the words come out in a rush."I was…hoping you could help me figure that out."_

_So she does. _

_And 'figuring it out' proves to be one of the most fascinating and enjoyable times in Molly Hooper's life. It involves joint experiments in the lab, where he is actually asking her opinion on variables and results and the best way to present the data. It involves discussing the merits and shortcomings of many varied subjects – different music genres and the subcultures they personify; the curriculum for pathology at various universities; the latest editor of the International Journal of Biology; the best way to boil an egg; the best way to remove exploded egg pieces from the wall._

_She learns more about Sherlock Holmes in three weeks than she's learned about him in the past eight years she's known him. _

_He doesn't like condiments – except for vinegar, with fish and chips._

_ He likes to lounge about in his pyjamas. This surprises her, because although he stayed with her temporarily – in and out – from a few hours to nearly a week at a time, after the Fall – it was always work; he was always on a mission, in and out of disguise, and even before then, she'd never seen him in anything besides his customary suit. She finds his pyjama-lounging endearing. (Even if it is somewhat infuriating that he can manage to look drop-dead gorgeous in anything, at anytime, in anyplace.) _

_He actually has a wide and relatively normal taste in music, though he prefers songs without lyrics. (Unless he's studying a subculture, of course.)_

_There is a place on his chest, below and to the left of his throat, on his clavicle. When she kisses him there, he closes his eyes. Every time. _

_And, perhaps her happiest finding is simply that he likes her. He genuinely, truly likes her, as a human being. Because he's known __**about**__ her for ages – her history, her thoughts, what she had for breakfast – but for the first time, he's really beginning to __**know**__ her. _

_After the first three weeks or so she's pretty sure she's figured it out – what Sherlock wants. And it's not a kiss now and then, or an extra crime-solving partner when John's not available, or an all-access pass to the lab. It's something much, much more than that. _

_She's content to enjoy herself while he figures it out for himself. _

* * *

_11 Years Later_

_Napa Valley, California_

_Fantastic. The Crusher of Dreams, the Faux-Papa, in the flesh._

Gigi blinked, and tried her best to smile for Tom. _No, stop that – Lydia wouldn't smile_. But scowling didn't feel right either. She felt sick to her stomach. She felt like crying. After worrying all night, she wasn't any closer to a solution than before. And she was a bit angry at Lydia for brushing off her concerns so quickly.

Molly, Mary, and Gigi were all at the Napa Valley mall, the last day before Molly had to return to work. After the hard work of the cemetery expedition the day before, Molly had suggested they take a break and go to the mall to look around for some clothes for Lydia, both for school in the fall and for the conference coming up the next weekend. (_You do want to come, don't you Lydia? All that science in one place? And the hotel has a pool!_ And Gigi had assured her mother that absolutely, she wanted to come.)

Gigi had to admit she'd been excited about the shopping. After all, although she went shopping with Mrs. Hudson, Uncle John, and on the rarest of occasions – Ms. Anthea – she had never been shopping with her mother.

She'd been so excited, walking around with her Mum and Mary, trying on different outfits and eating soft pretzels and tossing coins into fountains, until the sound of someone shouting her mother's name made her heart drop like a stone to her stomach.

"Molly! Molly!"

What was worse than the man calling her name was her mother's reaction to it. She grinned, and spun around, searching for him in the mildly crowded mall. "Tom? Tom!" She waved to him.

And he half-jogged up to the group, standing outside a _Bath and Body Works_ store, wearing his jeans and polo again. "Fancy meeting you lovely ladies here! I just ran by on my lunch to stop at Kay's, and then I was going to call you about your proposal for the affects of protein agents on mitosis, Molly," He said, giving Gigi a wink and Molly a kiss.

_Gag. She should be kissing MY father. _Gigi decided that perhaps keeping a straight face was better than attempting to portray any type of emotion.

"Oh?" Molly said, smiling, and darting a look at Gigi. "We're looking for some clothes for Lydia. I'm so glad we ran into you!"

Tom kissed her again, and took her hands in his, rubbing her knuckles with his thumbs. "Me too. Have you told her yet?" He murmured into her ear.

Molly sighed and frowned.

"Molly-" he began, looking concerned - but Mary took the opportunity to interrupt.

"I've got to check out the sale they're having on sweet pea shampoo in there. If anyone needs me, I'll be in there." And with that, Mary was gone.

Gigi wished she'd thought of that one. In fact, right now, she wished desperately that she'd paid more attention to the layout of the mall on the way in. Because she felt very much like wandering away and not returning until Tom's _lunch break_ was long over and done with.

But her mother had a firm grip on her hand. Like she was three. _The first downside I've experienced of mothers_, thought Gigi glumly.

"Tom," Molly said lightly, "why don't you go get us a table at _La Shish?_ We can have lunch with you and discuss my research plan after I have a talk with Lydia."

He smiled. "Great. Sounds great. I'll do that, Molly. See you soon, kiddo," he said, awkwardly bumping Gigi on the shoulder with his fist, and giving her mother another kiss before he strode confidently away.

Gigi flinched a little.

Molly still had a firm grip on Gigi's hand, and she led them to a bench by the fountain Gigi had been tossing coins into just a moment before.

"Lydia," Molly began gently, "You're a smart girl. I think you know what I'm going to tell you."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean," Gigi replied, attempting to sound innocent and snarky but falling very far from the goal. In fact, her voice wavered a bit.

Molly held her hand, patting it gently. "Lydia, I know you haven't gotten the chance to experience many male role models in your lifetime. I haven't dated much, and most of the men I have dated haven't stayed in the picture for more than a few weeks. But Tom is different. I met him a few weeks before you went to camp, but we didn't start dating until after you'd left. I mean, he asked me out after you'd been there about a week. And you know – I've told you – it's been – lovely. Perfect, even. I haven't enjoyed a relationship this much since-"

"-since your relationship with my father?" Gigi asked softly, feeling a strange coolness settle over her. She had goosebumps. But deep in her stomach, it felt like there was a fire burning. _Not Good, Mum! Why'd…why'd you have to go and find a Dad-look-alike right before you were going to meet him again? Why'd you have to like Tom so much? Why'd he have to be so…normal? Is that what you want? Is that what you want? _

She darted a gaze at her mother, who was looking at her with surprise and a hint of sadness.

"Yes," Molly admitted quietly. "But your father, unfortunately, has not been in the picture for a long time. I hope that Tom will be."

"What do you mean?" Gigi asked coldly, fear making her words less kind.

"I mean, Lydia, that Tom asked me to marry him. And I said yes. I'm going to marry Tom." She squeezed Gigi's hand, and when Gigi didn't respond, she went on to explain all of Tom's attributes, and how she was sure she would like him, if she gave him a chance.

But for Gigi, it was like time had stopped. _Not Good. _She'd been fearing and avoiding this very revelation since she'd come home, and now that it was the spoken truth – the weight of it came crashing down on her.

_Mum's engaged._

_Mum's engaged and we're in the process of trying to set her back up with Dad._

_Mum's engaged to a man who looks an awfully lot like Dad._

_Seeing Dad might mess up Mum's engagement. (Which would be ideal for the girls and Dad, but Gigi knew that ruining an engagement – a promise – was worse than just messing up a casual dating relationship. And the thought bothered her.)_

_How can I convince Mum to see Dad now? How will I ever tell her? _

And her biggest fear:

_She'll hate me. Mum will hate me for bringing all this back into her life, and I love her, and she'll hate me, and it's all Mum's fault for being engaged because if she wasn't than none of this would be an issue at all._

"You _can't_ be engaged, Mum. You just _can't_. You've ruined _everything!"_

And with those words, Gigi tore herself from her mother's gentle grip and ran blindly through the mall.

* * *

_London, England_

Sherlock continued to notice inconsistencies in his daughter's behavior, beginning the next morning, when he had to wake her after she slept through her alarm.

_Genevieve never sleeps through her alarm. Even if she did have a late night phone call – and she's never gotten those before, either - Genevieve never sleeps through her alarm._

Sherlock noticed when she ate two pieces of toast, milk, coffee, and an orange for breakfast.

_Genevieve never eats more than one piece of toast in the morning. And she never asks for coffee. She prefers tea._

Sherlock noticed when she _bounced_ in the cab on the ride to Bart's, and the way she _looked_ at everything – it was more than looking; more than Gigi's usual _watching_. It was…like she was _absorbing _it. Like she'd never seen any of it before.

And when they arrived at Bart's – when they'd made their way to the lab – instead of pulling up a stool and sitting beside her father, watching him and quietly discussing his work – she stood at the end of the counter, leaning on it, and watched carefully, and when he asked her if she'd like to assist – she jumped at the chance.

And even _John_ noticed when she couldn't remember where the goggles were kept.

Sherlock noticed the way she handled the microscope, when he allowed her a chance to look through it. Genevieve's habit was always to move the microscope _downwards, _and then to slowly adjust the focus upwards.

This time, she moved it _upward_, and adjusted _downward,_ with much more self-assurance than was normal for Gigi.

And she seemed to readily follow a lot more of the work he was doing, as he patiently explained the importance of maintaining some of the original sample from the fabric, as they tested different reactions to determine the chemical composition of the solution used to soften the metal in the crown.

Even John noticed her enthusiasm. He was flipping through a binder, matching Sherlock's results with possible compounds in the solution. He smiled at New Gigi. "That friend must have really made an impact on you," he commented.

"Hmm?" Strange New Gigi replied.

"The friend, you mentioned you made at camp the other day. Said she was interested in science and such. It's just…nice to see you so…excited about it." John said kindly, and then returned to his work.

Sherlock did not look up from his test, but his eyes darted to his daughter beside him. _Interesting observation._ _Perhaps this was the friend that phoned the previous night. And John's remembering incorrectly – no surprise there – Genevieve said her friend was interested in mysteries and deductions, not science - although making the leap to the science of deduction is not unforgiveable. _

New Gigi's brow furrowed and she nodded. "Right. Right. She was. A lovely girl." A brief smile toward John, and she returned to the microscope.

But she'd stopped bouncing and after assisting with a few more measurements (the unimportant ones, of course – because for all of Gigi's new interest in all things scientific, she was still a child, and he was a chemist) – he noticed how reluctantly she removed herself from the experiments, and resigned herself to standing near the edge of the countertop, observing and discussing things with them.

_Interesting_. And disconcerting.

He decided to probe further. So casually, keeping his gaze on the slides he was preparing at the moment, and listening carefully for shifts in her posture and changes in her voice, he asked his question. "Was it she who called you last night?"

A minute pause, a licking of the lips, and then, a bit apologetically, but not overtly secretive – the answer. "Um, you heard that? The phone call? Sorry about that, Dad."

He dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand. "I was already awake. So was it she who called you last night?" He repeated.

"Who?" Playing dumb now, with an air of forced carelessness.

He frowned. He did not care for her secrecy. "Your friend. From camp. The one who obviously had such an influence on your affinity for all things logical and scientific."

"Oh? Yes. Yes. It was her." She smiled brightly, and took a breath – _presumably to change the subject_ – but he pressed on.

"Care to elaborate?" He was studying her now, looking up from his microscope. This mysterious somehow-not-quite Gigi was much more important than the mystery of the disfigured coronet. Besides, there was only one last compound to discover. And Gigi certainly wasn't going anywhere. Sir Burnwell, however, might. Still…

"Oh, you mean on my friend?" She appeared the picture of cool carelessness, but he could tell she was beginning to feel a bit...nervous? Not enough to phase her – just – a slight nervousness that was not there a moment ago. It was apparent in the way her eyes slid to the side before refocusing on him, and in the way she sat up just a bit straighter. "She was a lovely girl. About my height, with…blonde hair, that she usually wore braided to the side. And freckles. And blue eyes. And she loved science. And mysteries. And deductions."

"What was this girl's name?" He matched her uninterested, indifferent tone.

Without a pause, this time. "Dahlia."

"And where is Dahlia from?"

Another pause, a wrinkle of the nose, as though thinking, and then – "New York."

Sherlock's face twitched, just a bit. She was _lying_. At least – he _thought_ she was. But then again…he wasn't sure. Because Genevieve – his sensitive, watching, quiet, careful daughter – did not lie often. But when she did, she always gave herself away by going wide-eyed (_too_ wide-eyed) and rubbing her forefinger with her thumb. But now…although she was staring at him, wide-eyed (not…_too_ wide eyed…but watching, thinking…), she was not rubbing – she was not doing that _thing_ with her hands.

Instead, she was biting the inside of her cheek, near her lip – he could tell because it was pulling just a little. And Genevieve didn't do that. At least, it wasn't one of _her_ lying signs.

Sherlock took this in in the span of three seconds, after which he gave her a small smile. "So she called you at 11 p.m. her time, to speak with you at 4 a.m. your time? For all her interest in _science_, she's not very good with numbers, is she?" His voice remained casual and light, but his eyes narrowed at his daughter. It was a searching expression, but not an angry one. It was a peering face, and one Gigi usually squirmed under. This time, however, she matched his gaze with a smile and a cool, narrowed gaze of her own.

It was an affectionate smile, but also…almost…_triumphant_. "Yeah, well…you know, Dad. Brilliant minds aren't always focused on trivial matters like time zones or how the Earth goes 'round the Sun."

John laughed. "She's got you there, Sherlock. This Dahlia sounds like a younger female version of you."

Sherlock snorted – because of course that was _impossible_ – and slightly insulting – but as he wrote down the final compound of the mystery solution that would lead them to George Burnwell – his brain kept John's comment on rewind in the back of his mind.

_This Dahlia sounds like a younger female version of you_.

Acids and bases and results and compounds, all the results in a neat line. The solution to the problem was in front of him, now.

_A younger female version of you_.

It was simple, really, once one broke it down into pieces.

He texted Mr. Holder the most likely location of Sir George Burnwell, based on the solution used to soften the crown, and the impurities found in it.

_A version of you._

And then he froze, unblinking, still staring at the little 'sent' icon on his mobile after sending the message.

And all the pieces – everything – everything he'd seen, but not _observed_ – everything he'd noticed but not _perceived_ – fell into place, and the solution to why Strange New Gigi was Strange and New opened before him.

_Why her appetite was suddenly much more than it was, before._

_Why she was so interested in, and so much better at, science and deductions than she was before_.

_Why she was suddenly messier and bouncier and a better liar with different tells, when she was lying._

_(He hadn't thought to look for other tells…he…was comparing the tells to Gigi's, and…not to the tells of the general population, because why would he? He knew his daughter…and her tells didn't change. They hadn't in years.) But if they had suddenly changed..._

_Why her hair had been cut one to two weeks before she even went to camp._

Sherlock Holmes finally faced the possibility – no - the _probability_ – that his daughter was literally not the same person. She was a different person – a _younger female version _of himself. She was a different person who happened to look _identical_ to his daughter, Genevieve.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

And the truth clicked neatly into place. The young lady, who was now distracted, helping her Uncle John clean up lab supplies and sterilize the goggles, _was_ his daughter – but she was not Genevieve.

"_Lydia_?" He asked, breathy and low, still not quite convinced of his conclusion.

"Mmm?" She responded.

And then realized her mistake.

* * *

_Napa Valley, California_

Gigi had long since dried her eyes, though they were still red-rimmed and puffy, and had wandered over to the music store at the mall, looking longingly at the violin on display. It was a cheaper model – much cheaper than her own violin, back home in London – but it was a decent sort, and with her emotions riding high, her fingers and heart itched to play it, and to allow all those emotions to come pouring out through her music.

When she'd run, she hadn't paid much attention to where she was going – her only thought was to go _away_. And now, although the mall itself was not ridiculously large, it was larger than those Gigi was accustomed to, and having only just become acquainted with it, she was not quite sure where to head back to.

Sure – she could ask a friendly security guard or cashier where to find _La Shish_, but she wasn't particularly motivated to find her mother and Tom swooning over chicken schwarma and lentil soup.

And she could certainly find a map of the mall somewhere, and find her way back to _Bath and Body Works_, but…although Gigi Holmes was sensitive and caring, she was still ten. And was it too much to ask that her mother or Mary come looking for her?

Besides, sulking seemed a sort of Lydia thing to do. So she didn't feel terribly badly about that.

Still, she estimated she had only really been gone for about ten to fifteen minutes, and so she probably had about ten before they either found her, or else made a horribly embarrassing announcement over the loudspeakers about a lost ten-year-old girl.

Hesitantly, she looked around. No sign of her Mum or Mary. (Or Tom. How perfectly _awful_ would it be if _he_ was the one to find her, here?)

"Do you play?" A kind voice, like tea with honey, asked from behind her.

"Uh – oh! Me?" She turned to see a young woman with dark eyes – almost black – and hair died a shocking pink with a streak of black, probably in her early twenties - in a sales uniform. It was almost a surprise that her voice was that…sweet.

"Yeah, you. I've seen you staring at this thing for the past five minutes. And you look like you could use a good emote. If you can actually play, of course. But you _look_ like the playing kind. So…you play?"

"Um…yes. A little." Gigi admitted quietly, taken aback.

The girl with the hair reached into the display case and removed the violin and bow, setting the instrument carefully on top of the case.

Gigi smiled a genuine, watery smile, and shook her head, taking a small step back. "Oh, thank you, but I couldn't-"

"Sure you could," the woman said, and jerked her head in a friendly way toward the side of the store. "Go ahead and play. You can use a practice room there. Just leave the door open so I can hear you."

Gigi hesitated. She shouldn't. She really, _really_ shouldn't. But…she was sad, and homesick, and worried, and…she could just play one little song. One little piece of familiarity, one little piece of home could make her feel better – and then she could go find Mary, and they could find her Mum, and maybe she could even have lunch with them and Tom, and begin Lydia's idea of sabotage – whatever that entailed. In fact, perhaps playing would allow her mind to come up with some better ideas for sabotage.

So she smiled, and gingerly took the violin and bow, and retreated to the tiny sanctuary offered her.

As soon as she lifted the violin to rest beneath her chin, testing the strings – perfectly tuned – and began playing, she felt better.

She warmed up with a few scales, and then began playing.

A simple tune, first – Fur Elise. Surely that didn't count as her one song…it was too…short.

So she played another. This one – starting mournfully, ending happily – a composition of her father's, for her to learn when she'd first progressed to slightly more challenging pieces. Still, relatively simple…and still too short.

She had a small audience, now – the saleswoman with the pink hair, and a little boy and his father who had been looking at reeds for a saxophone. She flashed a smile at them.

Feeling much better, and soundly warmed up, she decided – just one more. This was the absolutely _last_ piece.

Halfway througha small portion of _The Butterfly Lover's Concerto_ she'd been practicing, Gigi felt the presence of another few people enter the shop.

She decided she should absolutely be done after this song.

As she finished the last note with a trembling vibrato, a smattering of applause greeted her. She looked up, blushing, and nodded at the half-dozen people, who quickly continued with their business.

Gigi gingerly returned the violin and bow to the saleswoman, determined now to find her Mum, and Mary, and Tom – and to begin her sabotage of Tom. She still wasn't quite certain exactly what she would do…but she _had_ to do something, and she felt quite a bit better about doing it, now. Playing had reminded her of her father, and how much she loved him, and how much she wanted him to have the wonderful woman that was her mother back in his life. Because for all her frustration and disappointment and sadness when she'd learned of Tom, Gigi really did love her smart, sensitive, funny, warm mother.

With her course of action decided, she turned to leave.

And was met with the raised eyebrows and crossed arms of Mary Morstan.

Gigi froze, her mind spinning. _Oh Crap – Not Good – Oh Crap – Not Good – Oh Crap._

_Not Good._

Mary smiled. "We need to have a talk."

* * *

Gigi squeezed her eyes shut as Mary took the corner of the mountainous, sea-side 'scenic route' at a pace altogether too fast and seemingly dangerous for Gigi's taste.

Mary had found her and (apparently after listening to half of her father's composition and the entirety of her small excerpt from the _Butterfly Lover's Concerto_) explained that an issue had come up with her mother's research that Molly'd had to address with Tom in preparation for her conference in a few days. She'd been worried sick over Lydia, but Mary had assured her that she'd find her and talk to her. She'd sent her a text as soon as she'd spotted her in the music store, reassuring her that Lydia was fine and that they would meet up with them at the house later.

Gigi had followed her out of the store – for some reason, she no longer had any desire to run – something in Mary's countenance had strongly dissuaded her from that option, again. She hadn't even needed to hold her hand or grip her arm – Gigi just followed.

After Mary's explanation, the woman had stayed very quiet until they reached the yellow Jeep Mary drove.

"Mary…?" Gigi asked timidly.

"We're going for a ride, love. And you're going to spill the beans on what's been up with you since you've returned from camp." Her voice was stern, and her expression was guarded, but there was a twinkle in her eyes that eased Gigi's pounding heart somewhat.

Gigi swallowed, her voice small. "Oh. Okay."

Apparently, the 'ride' was a speeding joy ride around Mountain Roads of Doom, windows down, wind whipping her hair into a frenzy around her.

Gigi was not accustomed to such driving.

Or to such mountains.

Although logically she knew Mary was a perfectly safe and capable driver, the road they were on made her brace herself against the dash and door at every turn.

So whenever Mary asked her a question, taking her eyes of the road to look for a reply, Gigi answered as quickly and honestly as she could.

"What happened at camp, Lydia?"

"What do you mean?" Gigi braced herself for another bend in the road, bravely determined not to blow her cover just yet. But she was tired, and emotionally exhausted, and she really wasn't certain just how brilliant Lydia's whole switching idea was, at the moment.

"I mean – you've changed. In ways people don't normally change, Lydia." Mary said, shooting Gigi a pointed glance. "Since you've gotten back from camp, you barely eat, you're neat as a pin, you say strange things – stranger than normal – about 'proper verdicts' and 'perfectly lovely' times, and Toby barely recognizes you. He still hasn't come to sit in your lap, yet, Lydia. And it's not like you to take your mother's suitors so casually. Or to cry about an engagement, although I...well, we'll get to that. And – what the _heck_ was that, at the mall?! When did you learn to play the violin?!"

Gigi was silent, collecting her thoughts. Mary was a _lot_ more observant than Lydia had give her credit for. Although…she'd nailed the lid on her own coffin, so to speak, with her weakness for the violin at the mall.

When she didn't answer after a moment, Mary shook her head. Gigi could barely make out her words, over the rush of wind in her ears – but she still heard them. "It's almost as if you were…."

Gigi swallowed, and tears pricked her eyes. "Almost as if I were what, Mary?"

She was surprised when Mary shook her head and frowned. "Never mind, Lydia."

And all her longing for acceptance as _Gigi_ – as Genevieve, and _not_ Lydia – and her tiredness and her failure and her fears - came bursting to the forefront of her tongue, and before she could rethink her words –

"Almost as if I were Genevieve?"

* * *

_London, England_

It is an almost Pavolvian response – automatic, and requiring little to no thought - to answer to one's given name. And it was with very little thought that Lydia responded to her father's astounded pronouncement of her own name.

She froze for a moment, and tried to backpedal – "Yes? Who's Lydia?" She said quickly, trying to cover her tracks, but – no. She could see her father narrow her eyes at her, and give his head a sharp shake, once - and her Uncle John's eyes, wide with – disbelief? Fear? Amazement?

She swallowed. _Great. Just…great._ She felt a lump form somewhere in her throat. She may not have known her father long - but she knew that she'd been found out. "Hi, Dad." She attempted a smile. It came out sort of...grimace-y.

Her father shook his head once again, his normally stoic expression one of utter shock. "Excuse me."

And he turned on his heel and escaped the lab with a quiet urgency.

Lydia was not the crying type, and her eyes were still dry, but the lump in her throat was growing bigger. She swallowed noisily and concentrated on her breathing in an attempt to slow her pounding heart.

"_Lydia?"_ Uncle John snapped out of his daze as the laboratory door bounced shut with a click that resounded in the eerily quiet room.

"Hi, Uncle John," she said stiffly, attempting another smile.

"So – you're actually – I mean, you _actually_ are - " John shook his head, taking a step toward her, and looking somewhat lost. He stared to the side, as though attempting to work something out in his head.

"-Lydia, yes." She finished for him, all pretense gone. Because – although it had been fun to be Gigi for a while – really, she was just happy to be fully herself, back in her own skin. Even if she was a bit nauseous at her father's reaction. It's not like she expected him to cry with joy and embrace her, for goodness' sake. But…still. She swallowed again.

_What a strange combination of relief and dread._

"_Lydia_," John said, and then he smiled. And it was a smile that turned into a grin - a grin accompanied by rapid blinking and a swooping bear hug, lifting Lydia off of her toes.

And Lydia found herself burying her face into her uncle's shoulder, and letting out a shaky breath, and hugging him back with all the force her small muscles could exert.

When he put her down, she was smiling a tremulous smile of her own.

And John was shaking his head again, and smiling. "You're – you're beautiful, you know. Just…beautiful. And so clever - so _smart_. How - _how_ are you even here? Wait – where's Gigi?" And his smile was replaced with an expression of worry.

"Gigi's fine," Lydia explained. "She's with Mum, in California. We…we met at summer camp. And we sort of…switched places."

"You switched places," John nodded, and let out a short, barking, disbelieving laugh. "You switched places." He suddenly couldn't seem to stop laughing, or letting out disbelieving huffs of air, or pulling her in for hugs, or running his hand through his hair. Sometimes he tried to do all of those things at once.

"And Gigi's with Molly," he said, suddenly sobering. A brief look of anger mixed with worry crossed his face, and he turned and placed a hand on each of Lydia's shoulders, and bent down so that he was face to face with her.

"Lydia, you're brilliant. You're...an amazing, amazing person, yeah? Just like your father. I'm...I'm honestly impressed you fooled him that long. And I need to find him, now. But you don't need to worry. You really – just – don't worry. He loves you. He loves you, yeah? Just as much as he loves Gigi, and he's in shock – he's…bother. Lydia. That's just how – I'll take you to Mrs. Hudson. I'll take you to Mrs. Hudson, and then I'll find your father, and – I just can't believe it. I can't – _Lydia._" And he pulled her in, roughly, for another hug.

He broke away from Lydia, who took a deep breath to steady herself. If she had liked Uncle John before, she certainly loved him now. Even if he did give her quite a lot of hugs in a short amount of time. His reaction was exactly the sort she _was_ secretly hoping for.

He pressed his fingers on the bridge of his nose for a moment, and then shook his head once more. "Well, Lydia. I really do need to go after your Dad. Never was one for manners, was he. I'll talk to him, we'll come home later tonight. Mrs. Hudson – she'll – honestly, she'll be so incredibly pleased to meet you. You as Lydia, I mean, and not – not Gigi."

She nodded.

He pulled her to him one more time, and then walked her to a cab.

* * *

The cab ride seemed both too long and too short at the same time. As each minute passed, a feeling of concern and a sick sort of guilt rose in Lydia's throat. Her uncle was incredibly kind, but the one good reaction she had wanted – that of her father – was, as of yet – a mess.

But she still couldn't help but smile when John introduced her to Mrs. Hudson.

They came into the flat, and John knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

When she answered, she smiled in mild confusion. "Oh, hello, dears. Home already? That was fast, but your father always is, Gigi."

"Lydia," John corrected, smiling.

"No, Gi-" Mrs. Hudson attempted to correct, and then froze.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," Lydia said, smiling in a sort of smug way.

"_Lydia?!"_ Mrs. Hudson repeated, in a whisper, and reached out a hand to pat Lydia's cheek.

"Lydia Hooper. In the flesh."

And Mrs. Hudson shrieked, and threw her arms around Lydia, and a bright warmth bloomed in Lydia's stomach to battle the gnawing feeling of worry, in regard to her father.

* * *

**Don't worry guys - Sherlock won't be a jerk for long. He's just sort of shocked, ya know? He has some serious thinking to do. :)**

**Also, I had to split up Gigi's reveal, for reasons that will be apparent in the next chapter.  
**

**Chapter 7 is in the works and should be up shortly (by the end of the week). **

**Thanks for your encouragement - you're all wonderful. :)**

**Please review if you have the time!**


	7. Truly Madly Deeply

**Thanks for all of your support, follows, favorites, and reviews! They really motivated me to finish with this chapter before I left for camp. :)  
**

**So, I had some tying up of loose ends/explanations to make before the Sherlolly reunion, so it will not occur in this chapter - but in the next chapter, folks - IT'S HAPPENING! :)**

**Black Night - Thanks! Yes, Sherlock comes around in the way only he can, in this chapter, and Mary walks the line of being both Molly and Gigi's friend. :) Hope you enjoy it!**

**Thanks to OpalSkyLoveDivine, as always, for all your discussions and support and pre-reading. :)**

**Once again, I own nothing. Not Sherlock, not the Parent Trap - nothing. :)**

* * *

Chapter 7: Truly Madly Deeply

_"I say that we're right in the heart of it. A love only we understand._

_And if you're scared and alone…just know that I'm already home." – _A Great Big World, "Already Home"

* * *

_He's figured it out. It's taken him two months and nine days, on top of all the years he wasted before, but he's figured it out. _

_He loves her._

_He __**loves**__ her._

_He realizes it at she's organizing the body parts in the fridge – carefully separating and containing the fingers and liver, and removing and discarding any food that wasn't properly sealed before their arrival._

_And she's not glowing with beauty or impressing him with her wit or showering him with her almost unbearable kindness at the moment – she's simply cleaning out his fridge, and humming a tune from her iPod as she does it – but he realizes, in that moment, that this deep sense of fondness and respect, coupled with the chemical affects of the attraction he feels for her, means that he loves her._

_And it is entirely disconcerting._

_He's loved people before, of course, in the fondness and respect sense of the word – John, and Mrs. Hudson, and begrudgingly, he supposes his parents and his brother – but he's never __**loved**__ anyone like he loves Molly, right now._

_And the revelation that he loves her is marked with a strange combination of desire and fear, hope and despair, regret and guilt and joy and warmth and the realization that she somehow makes everything less boring and more bearable and better, just by being __**there**__. _

_He has learned so much about her, these past few months. _

_Well. Honestly, it probably actually started with the Fall. Because although he knew when he first met her that she was for all intents and purposes alone in the world – parents dead; no other family to speak of, and very few friends outside of work – he did not know the depth of the caring and kindness and loyalty she had (and still has) for those she does consider friends, until she told him he could have her, if he needed her, and he'd asked so much of her that night in a darkened lab._

_And although he knew when he first met her that she was the most intelligent of the pathologists at Barts, and also the most easily manipulated, he did not know – or care – until recently - that she is actually learned in a wide variety of subjects – that her intelligence encompasses not only knowledge of the sciences necessary for her job, but of astronomy, and history, and music, and literature, and baking, as well. (Even if he does not care personally for astronomy or most literary works of fiction, he is still somehow impressed by her passion for certain aspects of those two things. He finds himself quite amenable to lying on the roof of Baker Street with her, bundled in a mound of blankets and watching for the brightest of stars amongst the light pollution of the city as they discuss a rather impressively wide variety of subjects.)_

_She also likes dancing, but she does not know how. Really, it's just ridiculous (and admittedly very amusing) watching her try. He's hoping to teach her how to dance properly, soon._

_She's remarkably handy to have at a crime scene. Not better than John – she's certainly not his replacement – she's just…different. In a good sort of way. Because although she and John are about on par in the way of deductions, she's a tad bit better at determining cause of death and other oddities on corpses. And although John may be better back-up in a fight or chase – Molly – sweet, unassuming Molly – has a way of making people trust her. On one case, her sympathetic glance and a pat on the shoulder caused the blubbering suspect to confess to not only the crime he'd been arrested for, but to two others as well._

_She sings, too. Hums, mostly – but one time – just once, on one of the cases – a kidnapping, two weeks ago – he'd heard her sing. They'd found the child – not yet two years old – and it was terrified of Sherlock. The child – a little boy - had seemed to be much less wary of Molly, though, and she held his hand and sang softly to him until Lestrade arrived with the boy's mother. _

_It wasn't that unusual of a gesture – Sherlock is painfully aware that most people sing, and that there are a large number of people with moderately acceptable singing voices. Molly's just happens to be one of them. It's moderately acceptable. But when Sherlock told her that, later, back at Baker Street – a genuine Sherlock compliment, for all its snarkiness – she had shrugged it off. _

_"It's a good lullaby voice," she'd explained humbly, ducking her head and blushing. "Sounds good when singing to children, but not with much else." _

_And for that modest and honest analysis of her own voice, he loves her more. Now that he's recognized this…feeling, as love. _

_And…she likes him. She's loved him for ages - he knows that now - but she also likes him. And not just the brilliant, popular detective – but all of him. His science and obsession with crime and his odd schedules and habits. She likes him, and she loves him._

_And he loves her. _

_He is less…just, less…when she is gone. And he is more, when she is here. _

_Not that it affects his work. He finds that her absence does not hinder his work. _

_But her presence definitely helps it._

_He loves her._

_But he doesn't tell her. _

_Of course not. _

_He figures if it's obvious to him, now – well, it should be obvious to her as well. Aside from a few more kisses (and there were quite a lot of those to begin with), a few more embraces, a few more shared smiles and round-about Sherlock-y compliments, nothing much changes._

_But now that Sherlock's 'figured it out', there is a new problem._

_The problem is that she is not present nearly as often as he would like. And when he makes casual comments about room at Baker Street, she makes casual comments about her flat and banking and mail and shopping and Toby. _

_He thinks about this for three days before he realizes that there is a way to make it all easier – all of it, including the banking and all of the excuses she's made to avoid moving in with him. (He never doubted that she would want to, eventually – it was simply a matter of finding the best way to convince her.) _

_And the most likely 'best way' to convince her had never been an option for him before – ever, in his life – and so soundly had he deleted that option in his early twenties that it takes three days for the vague form of it to solidify in his mind._

_Unfortunately for him, it solidifies at the lab, with John and Lestrade and a horribly nauseating intern hovering around Molly and her work._

_He's just solved the case – easy, a crime copycatted from years ago, unoriginal – Botox injections laced with tetanus – a jealous neighbor, this time, though – and he casually remarks, as he's pointed out the last bits of evidence on the corpse – "Injection site here, and here. Ridiculously easy solution. We could get married."_

_"Sorry – what?" Lestrade asks, because he's jotting down some information for the Yard and his pen pauses, mid-sentence._

_"Oh," Sherlock says, as though he is noticing the others in the room for the first time, then snorts at their stupidity. "Not all of us together, obviously. Illegal. And highly unappealing." He makes a face._

_"Wait…what? Are you…still talking about the case?" John asks, and the intern is starting to laugh. _

_Sherlock scowls at her, and she turns pink, and mumbles something about paperwork, and leaves. He can tell she's standing just outside the door, though. Listening._

_Molly is the only one who has not said anything, and she is standing over the corpse, making final notes and turning quite pink herself. _

_Now that he's found his solution, however, he is quite confident it will work perfectly._

_"No, John. Use your brain. Molly and I could get married." He explains as patiently as Sherlock Holmes can._

_There is an awkward silence, and Sherlock is peripherally aware that Lestrade and John are exchanging looks. But he is only concerned with Molly, who is now a lovely shade of red, and pressing her lips into a thin line. _

_"Wha – Why?" She asks._

_Not the answer he was expecting. _

_"Because it would make everything easier. Banking. Taxes. Mail. The shopping. Your schedule. All those mundane things. And the cases. We'd…be together, more often." He says this with the patience he has reserved only for Molly, because although she should realize these things herself – including the fact that the main reason is obviously that he loves her - he does realize that women usually have brief moments of incoherent thought and speech patterns when they are proposed to. _

_"So…" she says evenly, still writing on her clipboard, signing off on the corpse and cause of death, "so you think…we should get married so I can do all of the banking and shopping and my mundane work more easily, and so I'll be closer to help you solve cases."_

_"Yes?" He says uncertainly, because that technically is the solution to the problem, although of course there is more to it than that. There is the fact that she makes him __**more**__, that she makes everything better, and that she in herself is the only person he can imagine wanting to do those mundane things with. Well…that he would be __**willing**__ to do those mundane things with. But surely, she knows that. It's obvious, now._

_When Molly glances at him, her face is blank. _

_"Maybe…we should go," John says doubtfully._

_Still, he and Lestrade take their sweet time backing toward the morgue doors._

_"Thank you, Sherlock. That would be a neat little solution. It deserves some thought," she says, finally, not meeting his gaze. _

_It takes Sherlock a moment to realize that she's said no, because he's already reasoning that they don't need a large wedding – neither of them are into that, thank goodness, and Molly has no family left to hold a wedding for, so perhaps just John and Lestrade and one or two of Molly's friends as witnesses – he hoped she wouldn't want to invite Meena - perhaps Mrs. Hudson – but -_

_"What?" He asks._

_"It deserves some thought," She repeats simply._

_"You're saying - no?" It's something he cannot process, because those two little letters keep gumming up his mind gears._

_"No, I'm…I am not – what I'm saying is – it's something to talk about." When he frowns at her, she sighs. "Well, fine then. What I meant was no. Not a forever no, just…a not right now no." Molly says, and she is still very red, and she shoots Greg and John the most evil look she can muster, and they take the final step into the hallway, crashing into intern, who is still waiting outside, and they let the doors swing shut behind them._

_Sherlock's ears are turning pink. He loves her, she loves him, they enjoy being together, and those everyday mundane things (Bills! Banks! Taxes!) are getting in the way of them being together more frequently. Marriage is a perfectly logical solution. "You…but you love me," he states, confused, and trying desperately in his mind to figure out what went wrong. _

_She does not attempt to argue, because she does love him. And they both know it._

_So he works around the puzzle that is Molly Hooper's answer. "You love me. You enjoy Baker Street. You enjoy having me at your flat. I can tell you want to…spend more time together. You sigh when you think of leaving. You are not averse to marriage – you've gone to the weddings of several co-workers, and based on the literature you posses, you subscribe to antiquated traditional expectations of love and marriage. You're also not…you're not averse to the idea, of marrying me, because you – you're trying not to smile, and wish to 'discuss it', although why I have no idea – if you want to marry me, and I, you - we should just do it. What is there to discuss? And if you were going to leave, you'd have done so already. So – why no?"_

_She smiles at him, and it is a wry little thing. "Why? You really want to know…why I said no."_

_"Enlighten me," he extends his arm for emphasis._

_She can tell his is both confused and upset about her unexpected rejection, so she does her best to explain kindly and gently. "Because now, Sherlock, you've just soundly assured me that I love you – and I do - and how wonderful it would be for you to have a live-in housekeep and lab partner. But you have not made one mention of why you love me, or even if you do at all. I think you do – I'm nearly certain you do – but - I need to __**know**__. I need to hear from you that you're not proposing this for simplicity's sake, or for convenience, but that it's something you truly want. So if you really want me to marry you, Sherlock, you'll do your research and propose this amazing solution of yours in a way that makes me want to say yes instead of wanting to kick you out of the morgue." A smile softens her words._

_He pauses, scowling and muttering – "It should have been obvious. Isn't it obvious-?"_

_But after a moment, he nods seriously. He knows that to say it now – that he loves her – will seem forced, or manipulative, so he will wait. Impatiently. Instead, he says - "You're saying…ask again?"_

_She nods back. "Ask again."_

_When he opens his mouth after a moment of concentration, she can't help but laugh, and she moves around the corpse to offer him a small kiss, which he receives stiffly. "Not now, Sherlock! At an unspecified later date. And if you know I 'subscribe to the antiquated and traditional expectations for love and marriage', you should know that a proper proposal usually involves a ring."_

_He raises an eyebrow at her. "I hope you don't expect me to get down on one knee?"_

_She laughs, and zips up the cadaver bag, done with her work. "Sherlock Holmes, I've learned not to expect anything when it comes to you."_

_The next time Sherlock proposes – just shy of three weeks after the previous proposal – having had help in the planning from John Watson - he makes her want to say yes everyday, for the rest of her life. _

_But whenever she tells the story of how Sherlock proposed, she starts with the lab proposal. _

_Because it's so much funnier, she says._

_And Sherlock sulks about the whole thing, and protests that he was not actually __**proposing **__proposing – simply proposing a logical solution to a problem – but there is always a smile in his eyes when he says it. _

* * *

_11 Years Later_

_London, England_

John introduced Mrs. Hudson to Lydia-Not-Gigi, and then he left to find Sherlock.

And Lydia was being properly taken care of by an overly enthusiastic Mrs. Hudson.

After a few moments, however, when Mrs. Hudson realized that Lydia was not chattering as excitedly as she was, she paused, and thought for a moment, and then sighed in sympathy. She walked over and sat beside Lydia on the couch, patting her hand.

Lydia shifted uncomfortably. This was something…this was one of those times where she really just wanted to sit and _think_ about everything. Without touching, or chatting, or tea.

But Mrs. Hudson could not know that, unless she told her, and she really didn't want to be rude to this admittedly amazing woman, who had only just a moment ago greeted her so enthusiastically.

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Hudson said quietly, after a moment. "I can see you're a bit upset about something, and I can guess what it is. Did you decide to tell him, or…did he…?" She let her question trail off.

Lydia sighed and smiled a small, wry smile. "He deduced it," she said simply, clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap. _He deduced it, though I'm still not sure how, and it shocked the daylights out of him. He wasn't…angry…but he wasn't…happy, either. _

And that bothered Lydia more than she cared to admit.

_It doesn't matter_, she told herself fiercely. _It doesn't matter_. But deep down, she knew it did. She wanted her father to love her, as _Lydia_.

"Mmm. He does that," Mrs. Hudson sighed again in sympathy.

_But…he was impressed with my deductions. And with my help in the lab. And we…we're alike, Dad and I. He'll remember that._

Lydia was sure he would remember that. And though he might be angry – she suspected her mother would be angry, when she found out –

_Her mother._

Lydia froze. _What if he called her mother?!_

After a moment, she calmed herself from that thought and realized that he most likely would not do that. Yet.

But she needed to phone Gigi, to warn her.

She moved to get up, and Mrs. Hudson stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Lydia, dear-"

"I need to call Gigi," Lydia explained.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "All right, dear. I'd like to talk to her, too."

So Lydia retrieved Gigi's mobile phone from her bedroom, and after Lydia and Mrs. Hudson had phoned and left a message (straight to voicemail) – Lydia sat, turning the phone over and over in her hand, and thinking.

Mrs. Hudson quietly broke in on her thoughts. "You are like him, dear."

"Hmm?" Lydia looked up.

"You…you're thinking, now. And your – expression. I know your father, and I know when he's a bit upset, and that face – you're upset dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled, but it was equal parts sad and understanding. "Gigi would have been crying by now, you know."

Lydia sighed and offered Mrs. Hudson a tense smile, and then figured she might as well ask the question that had been bothering her. "Why…wasn't he happy to see me?"

And Mrs. Hudson put her arm around Lydia, rubbing her shoulder briskly, and Lydia only squirmed a little, resisting the urge to shrug her off completely. "Because, dear…love does funny things to us all. He does love you, and he _will_ be happy to see you, once the shock wears off. But knowing…well, knowing you're here, dear, and that Gigi is…with Molly…well. With that lightning-speed mind of his, your father probably realized he'd have to see her again, eventually, now…and…" She sighed. "Who knows what he's thinking, right now? Your mother was the only one who ever had enough of him to break his heart."

Lydia swallowed, and nodded stiffly. So it wasn't…_her_ he was running from. It was…her mother. Which shouldn't have made her feel better, but it did. "He broke hers, too," she said quietly and stubbornly, in defense of her mother.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I know, dear. I know."

* * *

Sherlock was somewhere near Picadilly Station.

He'd walked out of the lab and out of the hospital on autopilot, his mental map of London self-directing him, as he contemplated everything that had just occurred, and their consequences.

_Lydia_.

It wasn't terribly difficult to deduce what had happened. Gigi had gone to camp, Lydia had arrived in London after camp. They'd gone to the same camp, met, realized their relationship, and switched places. The fact that they'd planned to switch places was evident in the fact that Lydia had known so much of Gigi's life, and was able to fool John and Mrs. Hudson completely from the start, and that he only mildly suspected her for the first two days because of a few inconsistencies in her personality.

_Lydia_.

His daughter. His daughter, who should be 5,088 miles away, in Napa Valley, California, population 136,000 – with her mother, Molly Hooper.

_Molly_.

The thought of her name made a strangely familiar, bittersweet feeling rise in his chest – one that he promptly attempted to suppress.

He'd been paying attention to Doctor Hooper's research, but that was a separate room from Molly Hooper – a separate file, rarely visited. With practice, he'd been able to separate the scientific findings of one Dr. Hooper from the memories of his Molly.

His fingers drummed anxiously against his side as he walked briskly to nowhere in an attempt to gain some semblance of control over his bodily reactions.

But Lydia's arrival – and her connection, in his mind, to Molly – had opened that locked and barricaded room in his mind palace. He'd placed the knowledge of his other daughter in the room with her mother, and soundly sealed the door, because it was a distraction, and painful to boot, to remember regularly that there was another piece of him he would never see – and now the images were bursting forth, one by one, in no particular chronological order, before sizzling out like so many gray remains of fireworks and being stuffed back in the room quickly and haphazardly – _almost_ efficiently.

He'd done this before.

_Molly over a microscope, concentrating - unaware, for the moment, that he is watching._

_Lydia, behind glass and beside her sister, a tiny red wrinkly thing with a loud set of lungs. _

_Molly, on Christmas, in a hideous reindeer jumper with freshly showered hair framing her face, all nervous sympathy and embarrassment as he identifies The Woman's body from 'not her face'. _

_Molly, seeing him. _

_Molly, saving him._

_Molly handing him coffee, hair braided to the side, silent and smiling, as he tells her he plans on returning to London, soon._

_Lydia cooing and attempting to suckle his finger. _

_Molly pressing her hands to her lips, eyes wide with shock and a searching sort of hope, after he kisses her._

_Molly in a wedding dress, chatting with Mrs. Hudson and catching his eye from across the room, raising her eyebrows and smiling reassuringly as he attempts to worm his way out of small talk with Lestrade._

_Molly three months pregnant, radiant and laughing in disbelief as she tells him it's twins._

_He loved her._

Sherlock stiffened, bracing himself, because he knew the worst was yet to come. "_Shut up shut up shut up_!" He muttered to himself – to his own brain – as he continued to pace through London, his mind whirring in the background, navigating – because to focus solely on his current predicament was unbearable.

"Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium…" he recited fiercely, attempting to drown out the pieces of memories that were forcing their way through carefully constructed barriers to the forefront of his thoughts.

_Molly's face, worried and hurt, five months pregnant, when he comes home quite bruised after a case, and they have their first proper fight (albeit a small one) about which cases are appropriate to take while Molly is expecting. And potentially, in the future, while raising a family._

_Molly six and a half months pregnant, slapping him hard – three times – across his face – when he takes the first ten presented to him since Moriarty, and places everyone he cares about at the mercy of a master blackmailer, and gets high to throw said blackmailer off of his trail._

_He loved her._

"Tungsten, Rhenium, Osmium-" he was shouting now as he walked, ignoring the concerned looks of passerby on the street - commanding his mind now to spare him the remainder of these stupid, foolish memories.

It never worked, but he'd become good at returning them to their place almost as soon as they'd sprouted form.

_Waking up in the hospital to see Molly's face – furious and hurt and commanding – telling him "Never again," after he is shot, and the look of stiff, angry acceptance when he agrees._

_The failure of himself to abide by that promise, and his angry suggestion that she is welcome to leave if she is going to continue pestering him about families and babies when he has important work to do._

_Oh, but he had loved her._

She left. Of course, she left. It was the logical solution, for her to leave. He'd presented her with the option, after all. But even in leaving, even in taking his suggestion to heart – _oh, how had learned to regret it _– she was kind, to him. He had asked his brother to help him arrange to see his children, and through his brother, he and Molly had worked out the agreement that he would have Genevieve Violet (his own mother's namesake), and she would have Lydia Margaret (her mother's namesake), and they would never see each other again.

He was not sure which memories were more painful – the happy ones, or the ones that proved how completely incompetent he was in regards to how to truly love Molly.

But he'd moved on.

He reminded himself of the fact as he packed away that last fizzle of a memory of his ex-wife. He'd moved on, and now that the worst of the memories were over and dealt with, he could force them back into that sealed room, repairing barriers and blockades once again.

In fact, he was relieved it was over so quickly. He'd remembered and although he could not delete those unpleasant memories, they were tidy and where they belonged once again. He was convinced he could face the task ahead of himself – returning Lydia to her mother, and gathering Genevieve back to London, with a cool, casual, distant sort of politeness.

He'd moved on.

He'd raised Gigi, with the help of his small, remaining group of friends. Loving Gigi was much different than loving Molly. It was immediate and instinctual. In fact, although she did resemble Molly in many ways, Genevieve had enough of himself in her, and was enough of her own person, that he was able to ignore that fact on a regular basis. It became routine to pluck out things that reminded him of her mother and shove them beneath the door of the mind-palace room labeled _Mistakes_.

He'd raised Gigi, and solved cases with John, and with the exception of raising a daughter (which was enough of a distraction in and of itself to allow him to avoid facing his feelings on the divorce), it had been remarkably easy to fall into his pre-Molly crime-solving habits.

Until now.

Until _Lydia_.

He smirked, despite himself, remembering afresh her now painfully obvious differences from Genevieve.

_She eats a lot, for starters._

_She is practical and messy and doesn't care about doing pointless things like making beds or dusting._

_She loves science and has a natural, raw talent for deductions_.

_She's a good liar and a good actress, and those traits will make her an excellent detective one day._

He thought with a grudging admiration and strong burst of affection - of Genevieve, and how detailed she'd been in her training of Lydia, and - of Lydia! That she had managed to deceive him for nearly fourty-eight hours was nearly unbelievable.

_She'd even – _

He stopped suddenly, a grin breaking across his face, all thoughts of Molly and mistakes made distant and forgotten, in lieu of his fascinating new daughter.

_She'd even smashed her fingers in a screen door to have a legitimate excuse to avoid playing the violin. _

Now _that_ was dedication.

And it was all to meet him.

A warmth bloomed in his chest that was much more pleasant than the feeling that had risen up in his chest earlier. He would hold onto this warmth.

_His daughter had become another person and traveled halfway around the world and smashed her fingers to meet him._

He had loved Gigi from the start – and now, that love that was immediate and instinctual applied itself to Lydia, as well.

And this love for Lydia was new and brilliant and he grinned again.

He had a new daughter to welcome to his world.

* * *

John scowled, just outside of New Scotland Yard.

Sherlock was not anywhere he had looked, but that was not unusual.

Sherlock was never anyplace you _expected_ him to be.

But still, he'd had to try.

And so he attempted to call his friend, again, and was once again met with voicemail.

No answers to texts, either.

_Absolute bloody bugger. _John was going to have to call his best friend's 'archenemy'.

He briefly closed his eyes, sighed, and dialed the number of Mycroft Holmes.

"Hello, Dr. Watson." The familiar voice on the other end of the line sounded as uninterested as usual.

John Watson was having none of it. "Where is he?" He demanded curtly.

"Whom?"

John could practically _hear_ the smug smirk blooming across Mycroft's face. "You know who-"

"I'm certain that the pronouns 'he' and 'who' can be used to describe roughly half the population of London. Unless you'd like to be more specific-"

"Oh, for – hmph. _Sherlock_. Where is Sherlock?"

A sigh, and a muffled conversation with Anthea, and an answer: "He's been in Harrod's for the past half hour disguised as an old man with a bad cough. Heaven knows what he's doing there. And now – ah. He is on the move. Apparently…caught a cab. And I'm not absolutely certain, but it seems as though he's headed toward Baker Street. Really, John Watson. If you can't manage to keep track of my brother, it's really not my-"

"Did you know?" John interrupted, having none of Mycroft's demeaning, long-winded, round-about monologue.

Mycroft sighed on the other line, and John knew the man's patience was running thin. "I know a great many things. If you're referring to the fact that the young lady currently residing at Baker Street is Lydia Hooper and not Genevieve Holmes, I do…_know_."

"When?" John asked tersely.

"Same time as you, of course."

John sighed. One could never tell if Mycroft was telling the truth – and he certainly couldn't tell now – but he figured he'd pressed his luck enough with the man.

An awkward pause, and then Mycroft spoke, again. "If we're quite done here, I have an Australian ambassador to meet with."

"Right, right." John shifted on his feet. "Sherlock's on his way back to Baker Street, then?"

"All appearances point to the fact, yes."

"Right." A heavy sigh, and then, reluctantly, John thanked him.

"A pleasure, as always," Mycroft stated patronizingly.

John assumed the conversation was over and went to hang up, but before he could even pull his mobile away from his ear, Mycroft's voice came across the line again.

"I'm far too busy at the moment to arrange a way out of this mess for him, so you'll have to figure it out on your own. I'm sure you can handle purchasing a plane ticket. And…do…keep an eye on him…"

John blinked. It had almost sounded like Mycroft was going to say 'please', for a moment there. "Uh…right. Yes. That's…what I'm-"

"Excellent. Good day, Dr. Watson."

John closed his eyes in frustration as Mycroft hung up on him.

At least Sherlock had headed back to Baker Street of his own accord. No telling what could happen once he got there, though.

And so John took off at a light jog to intercept his friend before he made a bigger mess of things.

* * *

After hanging up with John Watson, Mycroft set his mobile down neatly on his desk, and in a move quite uncharacteristic, he sighed. And not a 'why-are-you-such-a-simpleton' sigh, or a 'this-is-not-worth-my-time' sigh, but a genuine sigh displaying equal parts frustration and disappointment.

Anthea looked up at him. "Sir?"

He shook his head, once. "Forty-eight hours. That's all she got out of him. Impressive, for a child, to be sure…but the next stages are critical. I expect we have a few hours, in which my dear brother will spend some time 'getting to know' his new daughter. As well as I know my brother, I am uncertain whether he will wish to switch her back immediately, or whether he will keep her until Dr. Hooper notices she has the wrong twin. His course of action will determine our course of intervention. We will monitor Baker Street. Any word from California?"

Anthea pressed her lips into a fine line, and popped them as she did her research. "The last report from Ms. Morstan came a few days ago, saying that Lydia had returned safely from camp. Of course, since she has not been as detailed in her reports as of late, we took some extra security measures after the switch was made. Just cameras, of course, around their home, on location - or Ms. Morstan would be sure to notice. There has been no mention of suspicion regarding your niece. However, we have noticed, recently, that Dr. Hooper has been seeing someone. Regularly. Romantically. Ms. Morstan performed a background check on a Thomas Parker two weeks before Lydia went to camp. Apparently, Dr. Hooper is still seeing him. And…oh." She blinked. "I just received an update." She looked up at her employer after reading it, her face neutral. "They went to the…mall this morning. It appears that Dr. Hooper relayed some information to Genevieve after the group met up with Tom that she took poorly, and Genevieve ran. We do not know what it is, at the moment, but we have someone…looking into it."

Mycroft frowned, observing the footage. "Most likely probability is that Dr. Hooper has gotten herself into a serious relationship. Most inopportune. And very…unprofessional of Ms. Morstan not to notify us. I assume Genevieve is fine?"

"Yes, of course," Anthea nodded. "Ms. Morstan found her in a music shop not twenty minutes after Genevieve ran off. Surveillance footage from the store shows that Genevieve was playing, and Ms. Morstan overheard. They went to her Jeep. According to GPS data from Ms. Morstan's automobile, they are currently driving along Route 101."

Mycroft nodded. "Let me know when they have returned to their home. Ms. Morstan is no doubt suspicious of Genevieve's musical abilities. Lydia has phoned and left a message for Genevieve. Let me know when Genevieve calls back. I may need to have a talk with Ms. Morstan to ensure that my brother and Dr. Hooper will indeed _meet_ to exchange the twins. Keep me apprised of the situation."

"Yes, sir," Anthea replied, raising her eyebrows, amused, as she turned to leave.

* * *

_Napa Valley, California_

"Almost as if I were…Genevieve?" Gigi's voice was small and almost pained, and she saw Mary suddenly tense.

"What?" Mary turned to look sharply at the girl beside her.

Gigi's eyes closed and she braced herself against the dash. "Eyes on the road! Eyes on the road, please!"

A short breathy laugh escaped her, as Mary returned her focus to the road. After a few moments, she found a place to pull over on the side, and put the Jeep in park.

She sat with her hands on the wheel for a few seconds, blinking, and taking everything in. Suddenly, everything she'd been suspicious of made complete and total sense.

_She's not messy or hungry or sassy because she's not Lydia._

_Toby doesn't recognize her because…she's not Lydia._

_She can play the violin because she's not Lydia._

_She ran crying from Molly because she's not Lydia._

_She was acting so strangely during our ride because….she's not Lydia. Lydia loves riding through the mountains. She is not Lydia. She is Genevieve._

"Genevieve?" Mary said softly, and turned the ignition to the 'off' position as she turned to look at the miserable-looking little girl beside her. "You're…Genevieve?"

The girl nodded, blinking back tears and prying her fingers from the armrests so that she could wrap her arms around her middle.

_Apparently…Genevieve…Genevieve does not enjoy riding through the mountains. She was…frightened._

Mary's heart went out to the girl. "Oh, sweetie….Genevieve." She unbuckled her seatbelt and wrapped her arms around the girl, who quickly returned the embrace and buried her face in Mary's shoulder. "Sweet, sweet girl. I'm so sorry. Lydia loves driving through the mountains. It relaxes her. I didn't mean to give you a fright. I'm sorry, love. I'm…really, truly sorry. I've been treating you like Lydia…and you're not Lydia."

_She's a lot more sensitive than our Lydia_, Mary noted silently as Genevieve's tears caused her shirt to become damp. _She's more sensitive and quieter and much more neat and a lovely musician._

"Genevieve," she said softly again, and rubbed small circles on the girl's back. "It's all right, Genevieve. Sweet girl. Now, look at me, sweetie." She moved Genevieve off of her shoulder, and brushed the girl's tears away with her thumbs. Mary smiled at her, blinking away a few of her own tears. "I am so, so happy to finally meet you, Genevieve. You beautiful girl. So calm and quiet and neat and…you can _play_! You are _so talented._ You've been playing for a while, yeah?"

Gigi nodded, and timidly returned Mary's smile.

Mary smiled. "I can tell. I'm so glad I overheard you, Genevieve" She handed Gigi some tissues, and continued to pat her shoulder until Gigi had dried her face.

"Gigi," Genevieve said softly, her voice still wavering and thick from tears. "My…friends, and family, call me Gigi."

"Well, I'm honored to call you Gigi, then." Mary smiled again, and after a moment gently continued questioning her. "Well, this certainly explains a lot! You really pulled one over on your Mum and I. Clever girl."

Gigi smiled and blushed.

"Does this mean Lydia is in England with her father?"

Gigi nodded. "Yes. Lydia's with Dad, and I'm here. I mean, of course…I'm here. I just mean…we…" she sighed.

Mary chuckled. "Let's start from the beginning, shall we?"

Gigi nodded, and took a deep breath, and explained everything, from meeting at camp, to switching, to meeting Mum and Mary, to meeting Tom, and everything else that had happened. Mary laughed at all the right places and nodded sympathetically at all the others.

When she'd finished, Gigi felt as though a great burden had been lifted off of her. She smiled, large and genuine for Mary. "Thank you! I've…I've been so…worried, lately. It's hard to be Lydia all the time." She sniffed.

"Mmm," Mary agreed. After a moment, she took Gigi's hand. "And it's also hard to see your Mum with someone other than your Dad, eh?" She added softly.

Gigi frowned, and nodded reluctantly. "He's…like my Dad, in some ways. But in all the ways that count, he's…not. I just…don't know what to do."

"Well," Mary said evenly, "There's not much we can do. Your Mum has decided to marry him, and regardless of how we feel about him, we have to respect her wishes."

Gigi's heart fell. She'd been hoping for an ally –

"-but that doesn't mean we have to like him."

Gigi looked up sharply at Mary, who was smiling knowingly at her. "You…don't like him?" Gigi asked.

Mary smirked, and pushed a strand of hair away from Gigi's eyes. "Let's just say he has a clean record, but that doesn't mean there's not something…shifty about him. I've had my eye on him since he started dating your mother. He treats her very well…and he's polite…"

"…but there's something I don't like about him," Gigi finished. "He's…fake."

"Mmm," Mary agreed. "Too perfect. Of course, just because we don't like him doesn't mean we have any right to go about being rude to him. Just because someone is a bit fake doesn't mean they're worthy of being treated like a criminal. There are loads of people like Tom out there, love, but that doesn't make them evil."

Gigi nodded. She knew this, of course, but…so much for Lydia's plan of sabotage.

"Of course," Mary continued, "discovering that you are a twin – and that Molly has two daughters – will be a rather large shock for him. He may...show what I suspect are his true colors when he finds out. Molly should know what she's getting into," she muttered, smirking.

Gigi looked up quickly at Mary, eyes wide with despair. "You're…you're not going to tell, are you?!"

Mary squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Of course not, sweetie. But _you_ should. You should tell your mother first, of course. Not Tom. You certainly don't have to tell him."

Gigi nodded again. "Do…do I have to tell her now?"

Mary sighed, thinking.

Gigi held her breath.

"Tell you what," Mary said, after a moment. "I'll keep your secret with you until after your Mum's conference. She's extremely busy preparing for it, right now, and it's only a few days away. We'll let her concentrate on that, and after the conference this Saturday, we can tell her. Okay?"

"Deal!" Gigi said, enthusiastic with relief.

"And…" Mary said, smiling, "You can keep an eye out for anything off, about Tom. Talk to me about how you're feeling about him. I'll even look the other way if you want to stick your tongue out at him a few times, so to speak. After all, if this man is to become your step-father, you're allowed to have an opinion about him. Just don't present that opinion to your mother, right this moment. At least not…Lydia-style. You need to be supportive of her, at least until this big conference is over."

Gigi nodded, grinning widely. "Oh, yes! Of course I should do that. I will! I'd…I'm so pleased, Mary. You're brilliant. Lydia said you were amazing. She also said you always take Mum's side. But…I'm glad, you're taking mine, too." She blushed, and leaned to give Mary a side hug, which Mary promptly returned.

"Well, now…now that that's decided, I believe we should probably be returning home, love. Your mum is probably waiting for us, by now. She's probably too distracted with thoughts of research and presentations and Tom and worry over your reaction to him to notice anything terribly off about your behavior, but if you don't want her to find out before Saturday, I suggest you keep up that American accent you've been working on."

"Right. Yeah," Gigi replied, returning at once to her best American accent.

"Brilliant," Mary said, giving Gigi a quick kiss on the cheek before re-starting the Jeep and making the turn toward home.

* * *

When they returned home, Molly was indeed awaiting their arrival.

Molly scolded her, Gigi made her sort-of-sassy apologies for running off, and they ate dinner in relative peace. After dinner, Molly again made a short speech highlighting Tom's attributes, and that she expected Lydia to give him a chance, but that she understood it might take some time to get used to the idea, and that that was all right. Gigi readily accepted her embrace and said something neutrally comforting.

After the reassuring remark from Gigi, Mary suggested to Molly that she continue work on her presentation, and that she and Lydia would clean up the dishes.

"Well done," whispered Mary as she scrubbed and Gigi dried.

Gigi smiled to herself. "Thanks," she whispered back.

When they were done, Gigi excused herself from Mary to go to her room. "I've got to call Lydia," she explained quietly.

"Let me know how it goes," Mary replied.

* * *

_London, England_

Luckily, John arrived at Baker Street roughly five minutes before Sherlock.

He was not surprised when Sherlock practically waltzed out of the cab with two packages and a business-like air about him, as though the past several hours had not even occurred.

"Ah, John," Sherlock greeted him, nearly cheerfully. "Excellent. I was hoping to have to avoid tracking you down just so-"

"_You_ wanted to avoid tracking _me_ down?" John asked incredulously. "_Me_?!"

Sherlock smirked. "Not that you're particularly difficult to track, John. I can see you've been to Barts, and New Scotland Yard, and to several other locations with varying degrees of unsavoriness. But it still would have been an inconvenience. Now-" he held out the two packages, gift-wrapped.

"Now, wait a minute," John said sternly. "We need to discuss-"

"-which present in the most suitable for Lydia, my thoughts exactly," Sherlock interrupted. "Now, this package," he began, hefting the one in his right hand, "contains a magnifying glass, fingerprint dusting kit, and a newly bound copy of the book I'd had created for Gigi on common clues to look for while on a case. This one," he continued, lifting the one in his left hand, "contains a microscope – she'd have to have her own, of course, so we could work together here at Baker Street – and slides, and a junior set of goggles and lab apron. Which-"

"Sherlock Holmes, shut up!" John said, when Sherlock took a breath to continue.

Sherlock blinked, and frowned. "_What_ is the problem, John?"

"What – the question is, what _isn't_ the problem?" John corrected firmly. "Sit down." He gestured to the steps outside Baker Street.

"What?" Sherlock said sharply.

"Sit. Down." John said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John snatched one of his packages away.

"What was-"

"I'm not giving it back, or helping you decide which to give Lydia, until you sit down and we have a nice chat about what you've been doing for the past several hours."

Sherlock glared at him, but after a moment, submitted to his request with a dramatic sigh.

The two men sat side by side in silence for a few moments.

"Now then," John said cautiously. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock snorted. "I'm _fine_, John."

John frowned. "No, you're not. You just found out you're in possession of the twin daughter you thought you'd never see again, and that the daughter you've raised is halfway around the world with your ex-wife. You ran out of the hospital and left your daughter in tears."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "She _cried_?"

John shifted. "Well…no. No, she didn't. Metaphorical tears, mate. You left your daughter without a word, and that was not good."

"Technically, I did say 'excuse me'," Sherlock muttered, frowning.

"Still not good," John said sternly. "So, how do you…feel?"

Sherlock sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I was…caught off guard by my deductions. It was…highly improbable that I would ever see Lydia again, and the fact that she was…standing before me was…"

John nodded, encouraging his friend to finish the thought. "Was…?"

"…it brought about mixed reactions," Sherlock admitted after a moment. He sighed again. "I was...concerned, about the…consequences of their switch. But I thought about it logically, and realized that…Gigi is safe, and Lydia is safe, so what does it matter, at the moment? Lydia is a remarkably intelligent young lady, who managed to completely fool yourself and Mrs. Hudson for two days, and managed to throw off my suspicions for two days. I think the fact that I was…deceived by my own daughter was a bit of a shock. She even _smashed_ _her fingers in a door_ to avoid playing the violin. She was remarkably determined to meet me. I'm quite impressed with my daughter. And I realized that her homecoming gifts were woefully ill-suited to her tastes. So I took the liberty of purchasing new ones. So – which do you think Lydia would prefer? Detective, or laboratory?" He glanced at John expectantly before returning his gaze to the packages.

John sighed, and rubbed his face with his hand. "You're…all right with this?"

"With the presents? Of course. I-"

"No, you idiot. With the switch. With Lydia being here. You're…happy to meet her?"

"Of course, John. I am intensely curious to become acquainted with my daughter."

John sighed again, but his lips twitched into a smile. "And…switching her back? You'll…be okay, with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock said easily. He was lying.

John peered at him. He knew Sherlock was not 'all right' with the idea of…potentially seeing Molly yet – or, if he thought he was, he was in denial - but he figured, for tonight – it was best to allow the man to get acquainted with his daughter. They could deal with the rest later. For now, welcoming Lydia was the most important thing.

"Right. Good that. We can…talk about it later," John muttered. "So," he continued, before Sherlock could argue with him again, "which present, eh? That was…that was actually very good, Sherlock. The gifts."

"Of course it was, John. I thought of it." Sherlock dismissed John's compliment, but the way his mouth turned up at the corners betrayed his pride.

"Well…why not both?" John said. "I can repay you for the one you don't want to give her, and so one can be from m-"

"Actually, I think I'll just give her both," Sherlock said, cutting him off and giving him a grin, before snatching one of the packages back from John and bounding up the stairs into the flat.

John rolled his eyes, and smiled to himself. "You should still apologize for running, you know!" He called after his friend as he shut the door to Baker Street behind him.

* * *

Lydia sat with Mrs. Hudson, nervously picking at the pasta the landlady had made for her, for supper. She'd only eaten one full bowl, and half of the second. Her nerves were really affecting her appetite, apparently.

She sat up, ears perked, as she heard someone enter. Two someones. And one was yelling cheerfully and sounded an awful lot like her Uncle John. She held her breath as footsteps stopped outside of Mrs. Hudson's door, and bit her lip as it opened.

There was a pause, and then her father entered the room, with two rather large packages – one in each hand. He stopped awkwardly in the doorway as he found her eyes, and quickly looked away. He cleared his throat for a moment, and Mrs. Hudson jumped up from beside Lydia.

"I'll take your bowl, dear, if you've finished. Give you a bit of privacy," she said, and flitted into the kitchen.

Lydia watched her father with a neutral expression on her face, heart beating in her throat. "Hullo, Dad," she said quietly, after a moment.

"Lydia," he said quietly, and in a few strides, crossed the room to stand beside her.

He stood for a moment, as if unsure whether to sit beside Lydia. After a moment, he sat carefully beside her, and stared at her socked feet.

"I realize…I…" He began, then paused, and blinked. "I apologize for my actions earlier. It was a shock to realize you were not Gigi…but it was not an unpleasant one," he said kindly. "I am…glad to meet you, Lydia, and honored that you would learn so much about Gigi's habits and injure your fingers in your dedication to your ploy to meet me. However, in the future, you need not be so drastic. I much prefer my daughters whole." He gently scooped her injured fingers into the palm of his hand, studying them, and offered her a small smile. She returned it willingly.

"I also realize that in lieu of your different tastes and preferences, the homecoming gift I acquired for you was entirely inappropriate. I have corrected this problem. I believe, based on my deductions of your differences from Gigi, that they will be acceptable, considering the short notice I had to acquire them."

Lydia's smile widened. "Well…I guess I can forgive you," she said, teasingly. "It was probably pretty shocking to be tricked by a ten-year-old girl, even if it is your own daughter."

He snorted. "Indeed. Open your gifts."

She grinned. "You don't have to tell me twice."

John and Mrs. Hudson watched with beaming approval on their faces as Lydia squealed with excitement after opening both of her gifts.

* * *

Later that evening, after spending the evening discussing with her father various cases and science and how exactly she and Gigi planned and executed the whole switch (leaving out, of course, the plan to reunite him with her mother), and his explanation as to how he had deduced that she was not Gigi - Lydia was too exhausted to try calling Gigi again.

Besides, she'd left a message, and Gigi had not called her back.

She fell asleep without issue.

Hours later, the phone rang for nearly five minutes straight before she woke enough to answer it.

Blearily, she noticed the clock near her bed showed that it was one in the morning.

"'Lo," she mumbled sleepily into the phone.

"Hello, Lydia, sorry, I know it's late-" came the rushed, quiet voice of Gigi.

"Not a problem," Lydia said thickly, blinking. "'Sall good, now. Dad knows, I mean…obviously…but…he's okay, with it, and he hasn't…" she yawned widely. "He hasn't mentioned switching us back, yet, so if you haven't been…discovered, we're good…for-a…while, at least." She yawned again.

"Lydia, I know…I know you're sleepy, but wake up. I have something really important to tell you. Even more important than Dad figuring it out. Which…I'm glad…I'm glad it worked out. He was happy to see you?"

Lydia was slowly waking. Pulling herself upright, she rubbed her eyes. "Well, not…at first. It took him a while to come around. A few hours. But…when he came home, he had two presents for me, and we talked for a long while about science and stuff, and he…was awesome. He's awesome, Gigi. He was happy to meet me."

She could almost hear Gigi's smile on the other side. "That's great, Lydia. I'm glad." She was quiet for a moment after that, and Lydia could tell something was wrong.

"What's…what's important?" Lydia asked when Gigi didn't continue. "What's wrong?"

"Well," Gigi began, and sighed. "It's a long story. But…Mum's…she's getting _married_, Lydia. She's _engaged._"

Lydia was silent for a moment, as the news settled in a fully wakened her. "What?!" She hissed.

"It's true. She's engaged to…to…ugh, I can't even think of a good insult, at the moment. He's just…not right. He's-"

"-not Dad?" Lydia asked.

"Exactly," Gigi agreed. "He…it's sort of creepy. He…kind of _looks_ like Dad. Sort of. But not nearly as good. And he…he's smart, but he's also really…just…fake. Like he comes across as practically perfect, and it's quite grating on the nerves, because it's just not…right."

Lydia sighed, and blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Well, we're just in a boatload of trouble, aren't we? First I blow my cover, Mum's engaged-"

"-and Mary knows," Gigi said quietly. "She knows I'm me, and not you. That I'm Genevieve, I mean."

Lydia blinked. "How did that happen?"

Gigi harrumphed sheepishly. "Well…I…took the news of Mum's engagement…roughly. And I…may have played the violin at the mall to take my mind off of it? And Mary may have overheard me."

Lydia groaned. "Gigi! What did Mary say, when she found out?"

"She was really nice, Lydia. She's really…just so kind. I really like her. She agreed to keep my secret for another three days. In two days – on Saturday – Mum is presenting some of her research at a conference, and she's a bit stressed out preparing for it. Mary agreed to keep everything a secret until after the conference. And…she doesn't like Tom, either, but…she's not up for sabotaging him. Obviously."

"Obviously," Lydia agreed.

The girls were silent for a moment, puzzling out solutions to their problem - and then Lydia grinned. "Oh…I have a brilliant idea! Another one! I'm a genius!"

Now it was Gigi's turn to groan. "Lydia, your first brilliant idea is what got us into this mess in the first place. What-"

"No, just listen!" Lydia insisted. "I know you're loving being with Mum, and I…well, now that I'm me, and not you – I'm enjoying being with Dad even more. But this Tom person needs to go, and since Dad already knows about the switch…listen!" She was bouncing with excitement.

"I _am_ listening," Gigi said patiently.

"What if they reunite at the conference? Because…because I've been doing research! Mrs. Hudson said Dad really respected Mum's work – her intelligence – she said that Mum was like, one of the only people whose intelligence Dad never insulted. What if I convince him that Mum wants to switch us back, and that she wants to meet him at the conference? He can see her work and remember how brilliant she was! Is! And if Mary will keep the secret until after the conference, that gives us time to figure out how to tell Mum. After the conference, of course. But how awesome would it be to tell her, and then say – by the way, he's here waiting to see you! And…oh, man, Gigi, I am a _genius_!"

Gigi laughed, and then was silent for a moment, thinking. "Well, it's better than anything I've come up with," she admitted. "Which was nothing. And…it would be brilliant for them to meet and having something to talk about besides us. I'll…I'll work it out with Mary. Let her know Dad is coming this weekend and wants to switch us back, but that we still can't tell Mum until after the conference. You'll tell Dad he doesn't need to call her? That we've worked it all out? And Uncle John, too? He just needs to buy the tickets…"

"Sounds like a plan," Lydia crowed proudly. She was interrupted from her preening by a large yawn.

"All right. Thank you, Lydia. We're…we're a right mess, aren't we?" Gigi asked.

"A hot mess," Lydia agreed, yawning again. "But I love our family."

"Me too," Gigi agreed. "Love you, Lydia."

"Love you too."

"Bye."

* * *

Anthea received the notice of the phone call between the girls at precisely the moment Gigi's mobile rang at Baker Street.

She listened intently, grinning all the wider at the girls' antics, and afterwards returned to a sound, happy sleep herself.

The next morning, she relayed the girls' plan to Mycroft, along with the fact that Mary had submitted another report, explaining that she had Genevieve, and that Lydia was in London with Sherlock, and that she expected Sherlock, Lydia, and a John Watson to fly to California to switch the girls back over the weekend.

He smirked. "Excellent. No further instructions necessary for Ms. Morstan. We will monitor my brother, and Dr. Watson's, reactions to the news, and ensure that they follow the girls' wishes. Shouldn't be too difficult, because Dr. Watson is unaware of Dr. Hooper's current contact information. Make sure that there are seats available for them on any flight to California from today until the day of the conference. Oh, and it may be beneficial to ensure that Dr. Hooper's presentation is at a time convenient for my brother to overhear."

"Yes sir." Anthea smirked herself. After making said arrangements, she looked up at her employer. "Your nieces are quite the little matchmakers, sir."

He smiled at her. "Indeed they are. I think they inherited their cunning from me."

She returned his smile, and made no comment as she returned to her work.

* * *

**LET THE COUNTDOWN TO THE SHERLOLLY REUNION BEGIN! :)  
**

**Sadly...well, not sadly...but...I'm going away for this next week to volunteer at a kid's camp. I love it - but that means no updates until after I return. It may take 2 weeks before I get the next chapter up.  
**

**I will do my best to respond to your reviews from Chapter 6 before I leave today...but I may not get there. So please know that I'm extremely thankful for them but I thought you'd like an update as opposed to a PM thanking you. :) **

**Please review, if you have the time!**


	8. A Hot Mess

**Hello everyone!**

**Back from camp, and it was wonderful; thank you to those of you who left me well-wishes, in that regard! The girls were lovely, camp was fun albeit hard work (no identical twins, there, though!), and I am glad to be back home. **

**So APPARENTLY I'm pulling a J.K. Rowling over here, because each chapter I write is getting progressively longer than the previous one. 0_o I think this may be the longest chapter I've ever written. But I didn't want to break it up.  
**

**(Sorry-but-not-really.)**

**I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations...I'm a little nervous but excited to hear your thoughts. :)  
**

**Anywho…thank you to OpalSkyLoveDivine, whose discussions with me have made this story into what it is. Credit for the idea for the location/setting of the Sherlolly reunion goes to her, as does Gigi's violin playing in previous chapters, and the song/lyric suggestion for this chapter. Thank you!**

**I do not own Sherlock (some dialogue from the show is sprinkled into this chapter; I'm sure you'll recognize it when you see it), the Parent Trap, or any songs from Paramore. Or Disney's Frozen, because that is also referenced in this chapter.  
**

**And I feel like I talk too much so to all my guests/reviewers who I could not reply to by PM - see the bottom for my thanks to you! :)**

* * *

Chapter 8: A Hot Mess

_"After all this time…I'm still into you."_ - Paramore, "Still Into You"

* * *

_It is a typical Tuesday night, and Molly sighs, exasperated, at Sherlock's latest text._

_She loves him, she really does, but she'd rather not run about tomorrow on her day off, running errands and 'assisting' him with 'mundane' things. Investigations can occasionally be fun…but picking up dry cleaning? Hardly._

_Still, she smiles at the thought of the rather passionate kiss he bestowed on her as she left Baker Street earlier in the day, and his genuinely thankful albeit distracted expression, and decides that perhaps, after a good night's rest, she will feel more agreeable to the whole thing. Picking up dry-cleaning is rather domestic, after all.  
_

_The next morning, she wakes and showers and eats, and sighs again at the rather long text-list of things he would like her help with. The first on the list is to pick up some dry-cleaning on her way to Baker Street, which causes her to frown again, but she sighs and decides that she will humor him, because the list ends with Angelo's, and she's actually looking forward to getting to that part of the day. She can always alert Sherlock to his rudeness after he's gotten her a free extra portion of her favorite pasta. _

_When she arrives at the cleaners, however, she is surprised to find that the items under Sherlock's name are not, as she suspected, any of his suits or even his coat. In fact, the items are not his clothing at all. They are hers. _

_A pair of her slacks, one of her nicer blouses – she's always liked that one with the ruffles - and her favorite jumper. _

_She frowns. How – when - ? _

_The woman behind the counter interrupts her musings by handing her a receipt and telling her the washing was pre-paid. The woman disappears into the back room, and Molly is left with an armful of her own clothing, a fistful of receipt, and a belated 'thanks' on her lips._

_She gets a cab to Baker Street, which is frustratingly empty – no John, no Sherlock, no Mrs. Hudson, even – and she enters Sherlock's flat, setting her things down, and frowning. Sherlock is going to get an earful – well, as much of an earful as she can give him – if he thinks it's acceptable now to give her a list and run off without letting her know – well, all right. She really just intends to point out, in her own Molly way, the inappropriateness of his list of chores for her to do while he's off on who-knows-what sort of case with John - _

_She moves to toss the receipt into the rubbish bin in frustration, but some of the wording on it catches her eye and causes her to carefully, curiously smooth it out, instead. _

EXCEL DRY CLEANERS

DR. MOLLY HOOPER

1 PAIR SLACKS…PRACTICAL AND FLATTERING

1 BLOUSE…ACCENTUATES PERFECT PROPORTIONS, DESPITE PREVIOUS COMMENTS TO THE CONTRARY - CHRISTMAS 2012 - SINCE RESCINDED

1 JUMPER…MATCHES INDEPENDENT, SELF-ASSURED PERSONALITY

I WAS WONDERING…IF YOU'D LIKE TO HAVE COFFEE?

_Molly's lips twitch in disbelief. What-?_

_She pauses for a moment, and then pulls out her phone, and opens Sherlock's list. _

Pick up clothing from Excel's

Samples from the Attendant

Case file from NSY

Bart's

Angelo's

_A small, bright burst of laughter escapes her as she shakes her head…she'd just glanced at the list, earlier, of course, frustrated with Sherlock…it seemed to be a list of chores…'mundane things'…without even a 'please' or 'thank you'…but now…the Attendant…that was the coffee shop on Foley, wasn't it?_

_Yes. It was. It is. She is sure of it._

_She bites her lip, half-grinning, and looks around his flat. Her eyes light on the clothing she's just picked up from Excel's, and she figures – what the heck. If Sherlock has created a thoughtful sort of game for her to play today (or at least provided her with some thoughtful items on her list as well as 'errands'), she will indulge him and wear what he picked out for her. It is her favorite blouse and jumper, after all. She always likes how she looks in them. Apparently, so does he. She changes into the clothes, quickly, and heads to the next location on the list._

_The coffee is waiting for her. In fact, the coffee is waiting for just about everyone who walks by. Free samples of their newest concoction, tellingly named 'This Coffee Counts', are being handed out to passerby on the street. She immediately understands the reference and blushes, eyes darting around for a familiar Belstaff or mop of dark hair. When she doesn't spot either after a moment, she takes a sample anyway._

_Apparently, 'Coffee Counts' is a light blend with a generous splash of hazelnut creamer and two sugars. _

_It's exactly the way she likes it. _

_She can't stop smiling, now, though there is still no Sherlock in sight. Her heart is doing something that feels decidedly like expanding in her chest. She feels like a hot air balloon._

_With a second sample in her hand, she makes her way to New Scotland Yard. She fully expects to be 'working' now, with the case file and Bart's on the list, but she's quite happy with Sherlock's extremely thoughtful and oddly romantic additions to it and is still looking forward to Angelo's, later, hoping that he will at least be there, at the restaurant._

_She greets the officer on duty at the desk at New Scotland Yard and politely requests the case file that Sherlock Holmes has for Molly Hooper to pick up, and that it's probably with D.I. Lestrade. The officer, a sergeant by the name of McPherson, is a well-built woman with friendly green eyes and blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. She gives Molly a nod and a tight-lipped smile, and returns a moment later with Greg._

_He has a file in his hands, and she can tell he is trying very, very hard to suppress a grin of immense proportions. It's clear in the way his cheek is twitching uncontrollably and his lips keep doing a funny sort of wiggling._

_"Okay, Greg?" She asks him, smiling herself and taking the file from his hands._

_Her words seem to remind him of something, and he quickly gets his sort-of-grin under control and nods seriously at her, though his eyes are twinkling with something akin to mischievousness. "Fantastic, actually. Er…break in a case, and all that. Take a good look at that file, Molly. You'll need to go to Bart's to finish Sherlock's analysis." He beams at her for a moment with a sort of wistful pride on his face, before excusing himself and returning to work._

_Molly opens the file in the cab on the way to Bart's. _

_Her mouth drops open in shock, and she feels her face and neck flushing with heat as she reads through it._

_It's a copy of all the records New Scotland Yard has on all of the interactions of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Molly Hooper – all the times she worked with him on cases, all the times she was called in specifically to assist, from the first day she met him until the most recent case last week, involving a poisonous snake and a jealous step-father. _

_The records are dry, of course – simply records of one Dr. Hooper's findings and work with one Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes – but someone – someone has made them decidedly not dry with commentary scrawled into the margins. They're all filled with Sherlock's familiar handwriting._

"You stuttered uncontrollably but still managed to be the only one (aside from me) who could present a sound hypothesis as to cause of death."

"This was the day you stood up to that intern and demanded that he stop asking you out. You didn't stammer once, with him. It was quite appealing."

"I was deciding between working permanently with you or with - Sean Jacobson (?). Sean? was ten minutes late and you were on time and wore your hair braided to the side. I chose you."

"Do you remember the stench with this one? Putrefied remains. You stopped halfway through for lunch and had cabbage soup. I admired your self-control."

_Molly flips through the entire case-file, silent and wide-eyed and blushing because some of these events she doesn't even remember, but apparently Sherlock does. He remembers every encounter they've ever had. Or, at least – more of their encounters than she does._

_Some comments are long and detailed, and also relate to something funny Greg, or later John, said or did. And some comments are short, and poignant, and make her tear up._

_Such as the single note on the kidnapping case just before the fall, where Sherlock wrote in tiny, tight print – _You saw me.

_Of course, some – such as the Christmas she came in late to allow Sherlock to identify Irene Adler's body, or the events of the Fall, have no notes written in the margins. Some things must always remain an unspoken, unwritten secret._

_But there are also a few cases included in this file from the time when it was just her working in the morgue, the two years after Sherlock's fall and before his return, and he has scribbled notes there as well._

_A few are commending her on her observations, one explains in detail how a victim caused his own death – she'd have to point that note out to Greg, later, if Sherlock hadn't thought to point that out himself as he was making the notes – and one tiny note, that she almost misses. It is once again short but speaks volumes._

I missed you.

_She blinks rapidly and her chest tightens just a bit. And all this time she believed he hadn't noticed her for years and years. _

_She was wrong._

_She looks up from finishing the case file nearly two hours later to find that she's sitting in a parked cab outside Bart's. _

_Horrified, she takes a look at the meter, but it is off. "Sorry – sorry, oh – how – how much do I - ?"_

_The cabbie shakes his head affably. "No worries, miss. I was told to park 'ere until you was done. Been paid in full for the afternoon, miss. I'm to wait 'ere 'til ya've finished yer business in there." He nods toward the hospital._

_"Right," she breathes, after a moment. "Thank…thank you."_

_The cabbie returns to playing some sort of game on his mobile as she leaves the cab to enter the hospital. _

_Mike Stamford greets her cheerfully. "Molly! There you are. Got a little something for you in the lab to work on. I'll just leave you to it." He escorts her to the lab and squeezes her arm warmly before 'leaving her to it'. _

_By now, Molly has a strong theory about what is going on, and she can't stop her chin from trembling or her lips from smiling or her eyes from tearing up. It was that case file that did it. _

_Because of course she can see now – the outfit, the coffee, the file – they are all ways of saying how much she matters. How much she, and everything she cares about, matters. That he notices all of it, and more than that - that he remembers all of it – and, in a way, it matters to him, too._

_She is curious and happy and delighted to find a puzzle for her to work on, in the lab. Still no Sherlock, but she is now almost certain that she will see him at Angelo's shortly._

_A variety of samples for her to analyze are left on the counter, and she quickly and enthusiastically gets to work._

_A short time later, she is shocked as she discovers the last element in the puzzle. _

_It's a star. _

_Well, at least – it's the elements found in stars. All collected in various amounts on her lab counter. _

_She's always loved watching them, because her father did. They made up their own constellations and re-named them after they became familiar with all the traditional ones and she always enjoyed a good stargazing. She still remembers connecting the bright dots in the sky to create one she and her father deemed the 'Hooper Scooper' – because it looked like the sort of ice cream cone her father would make for her. _

_And she pauses for a few moments, and then decides to use her laptop to discover exactly which star or stars contain the various specific levels of hydrogen, helium, lithium, and carbon that are currently present in the samples left for her in her lab. _

_She clicks on the first search result and has to sit down on her stool because her knees are shaking._

_Because the first star that pops up with the specific mixture of elements in her laboratory is apparently one that was recently named the Molly Margaret, and it is the third star in the Hooper Scooper constellation. There is a photograph of the night sky with a photoshopped outline of the Hooper Scooper constellation she and her father made up when she was ten years old, and an arrow indicating the star bearing her namesake. The website is simple, and she can tell it was created recently. Very recently._

_She bursts into tears of bittersweet joy at the sneakiness of one Sherlock Holmes, because how on earth did he know about the Hooper Scooper? And…and…it was such a silly, silly thing – the sort of thing she thought Sherlock would surely deem trivial and sentimental and roll his eyes at – drawing outlines connecting stars light years away from each other with no real relation – and yet – here was the evidence, in front of her, that though he may indeed have found it silly - he took her fond memory of her father seriously and turned it into something beyond beautiful for her. Not because it benefited or pleased him in any way – but because it benefited and pleased her, and her alone._

_After a few moments she attempts to compose herself and dries her eyes with her shirtsleeve, then decides better of it and uses the nearby loo to wash her face and calm herself. _

_When she returns, there is a text waiting for her, from Sherlock. _

Don't forget Angelo's, Molly. –SH

_Oh, she hasn't forgotten. _

_She feels nervous and giddy and bittersweet and all these emotions bring fresh tears to her eyes, but she quickly blinks them away, grabs her things, and walks as quickly as her shaky legs can carry her to the cab that is still waiting for her outside of Bart's. _

_When she arrives at Angelo's, she is not surprised to find that it is completely empty, save for Angelo, and an elaborately set table complete with candles in the window of his restaurant. _

_Angelo welcomes her in with his signature grin, locking the door behind them, and guides her to the table. He hands her a menu – 'prepared specially for the evening', he states with a wink, and leaves her alone. _

_She glances it over nervously; waiting for Sherlock, noting it contains her favorite pasta dish. She is not surprised when she hears the gruff sounds of him clearing his throat behind her. Smiling into her menu, she greets him. _

_"Hello, Sherlock."_

_She can feel him move around the table until he is seated beside her, and her lips are quivering, and she darts small, quick glances at his face, because to stare at him and his gentle smirk full-on would reduce her to tears, and she really doesn't want to do that, right now._

_"Molly," he returns her greeting warmly._

_They sit in silence for a moment, and he takes her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles gently. His focus is on their hands, but his eyes dart to her face every now and then. He seems to be fairly pleased with whatever he sees there. _

_"I was told to ask again."_

_She nods, her own glances at his earnest, slightly uncomfortable, and yet ever-slightly-smug face becoming a bit longer. _

_"Would now be a more appropriate time?"_

_She laughs, just a bit, through her closed lips, attempting to stay calm by breathing through her nose, and nods. Her heart feels like it will beat right out of her at any moment, now, and she'd rather be upright and alive with both feet under her when Sherlock asks what she thinks he is going to ask._

_"Well, then. I was told by John to have a speech prepared, but words; vows - they are easily broken, misconstrued, and misunderstood. I am hoping my…actions throughout the day will have done most of the speaking for me." He swallows and moves so that he is holding her hand in both of his._

_She nods, again, smiling a tremulous smile. _

_"Nevertheless…I would…I'd like…to reiterate, Molly Hooper -" he pauses again, swallowing and clearing is throat. When he resumes speaking again, his voice is a bit lower, and resonates a bit more. "-that I…am a ridiculous man."_

_She almost laughs, but quickly stifles it when she notes his serious and somewhat vulnerable expression, behind the glint of mirth in his eyes. "In fact…I have been told on numerous occasions that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So…if, when you…first…made yourself, and your interest known, to me – I did not…return…that interest…it was because – in all honesty – I never expected anyone to be interested in me for any true length of time." He smirks, but the action is almost bitter. "All interest, in fact, typically goes out the door the minute I open my mouth. But I digress. I did not expect anyone to be interested in me for any true length of time. And I certainly did not expect to hold the interest of the bravest, kindest, brightest, truest woman I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."_

_Molly barely dares to breath, as he darts another look at her face to be sure his little speech is being well-received._

_It is._

_"I know that for some time…quite a long time, actually – you believed that although you were interested in me, and that I, in all my ridiculousness, mattered to you – you believed that I had no interest in you and that you did not matter in the slightest to me. But I hope, today, that I have proven you wrong. Because for some reason – I notice you. I've always noticed you. For a long time, I was not even aware of the vast amount of data I'd collected regarding…you. You count, you've always counted, and everything about you – your likes and dislikes, your opinions and preferences, your work and intelligence and what you value – everything that counts to you – counts…to me." He snorts, just a bit, but quickly meets her eyes again, his own lips twitching up into a rueful smile. "At least…I have tried…and I will continue to…try to make it count. The things you find important…I will…try to find important. They will matter…because you matter, to me. I have tried to prove that today."_

_He releases her hand and smiles at her, in a smirk-ish, genuine, slightly nervous way. "Unfortunately, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion. I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your…love, and friendship, and I fear I should warn you that that will not change just because we enter into a legally binding agreement to live out our days together. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to enter into said agreement, for reasons that have become…not entirely selfish. Molly Hooper, would you marry me? Not to make things easier, but…because - in case it is not obvious, by now – because…I love you. In fact, I believe that I am quite possibly the person who loves you most in all this world."_

_And her breath catches in her throat, and she smiles at the wonder before her - just staring at him with wide, wet eyes for nearly a full thirty seconds, before sliding closer to him and kissing him full on the mouth. Afterwards, she presses her forehead against his shoulder for just a moment, and breathes deeply._

_After a moment, he clears his throat again. "Although probability indicates that based on your reaction your response will be…in my favor – I should still like to hear it for myself."_

_Molly laughs then, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. Her voice is a happy whisper. "Yes. Of course – of course I will marry you, Sherlock Holmes. You are not ridiculous. Well, sometimes you are. But though you are __**sometimes**__ ridiculous - you are __**always**__ wonderful, brilliant, amazing - and in case it's not obvious – I love you, too."_

_"Mmm, that is one thing I am glad is obvious," he shakes his head and sighs, and she can feel the tension in the arm she is leaning against lessen. _

_After a moment, she continues, softly. "Sherlock, this whole...day was amazing. But you know...when I told you to ask again, I didn't expect-"  
_

_"I know you didn't expect this," he interrupts. "That's one of the reasons why I wanted to do...this."  
_

_They sit in comfortable silence for a moment.  
_

_"However," she says, suddenly straightening with a teasing smile, "I recall requesting a ring, and I do not-"_

_"Ah," he interrupts with a smile. "Check your left front pocket."_

_Molly frowns, and then gives him an incredulous look, and slides her hand into the left front pocket of her slacks._

_And her fingers enclose around the smooth round metal and catch on the small, cool hardness of a stone, and she does not stop laughing and crying until Sherlock rolls his eyes good-naturedly, takes the ring from her shaking palm, slides it onto her finger, and kisses her repeatedly. _

_John takes credit for the idea of Sherlock 'making amends' for past slights as part of his proposal, and for Angelo's. The rest, he insists with a proud smile, was all Sherlock's doing. Even the star – the Molly Margaret – and the Hooper Scooper. And even if the Hooper Scooper is not recognized as a true constellation by the general public (no one has that amount of pull), it will always be recognized by their small group of friends. _

_Their engagement is short and simple, as is the wedding itself. But it suits both guests of honor perfectly, and Sherlock is extremely pleased with the living arrangements thereafter. _

_Marriage suits Molly. It makes her happier, and more confident. And Sherlock adjusts fairly well, all things considered. It may not suit him, exactly, but it suits his relationship with Molly, and that is all that matters. There are more little rows, about small things, which Sherlock did not exactly expect - but there are also more moments of joy – of quiet calm and incredible excitement and intense happiness. And he finds it's worth it. He finds that honestly, yes, marriage makes the mundane things easier – for himself, anyway - but it also makes life itself deliciously more complex. _

_It becomes increasingly more complex when just three months after their wedding, Molly discovers she is pregnant. _

* * *

_11 years later_

_London, England_

_Friday, 7 p.m._

"You're _sure_ Molly is okay with this?" John asked Gigi over the phone for the umpteenth time. Lydia sat beside him on the couch, frowning and twirling a finger in her hair, and looking for all the world bored with the whole conversation. Which was probably the truth, considering they'd had it nearly twelve times in the past two days. Thankfully, she'd managed to convince her father to let her tag along on one case before Sherlock had shifted into _we're going to California and we're going to be prepared_ mode.

"Yes, Uncle John. I'm perfectly sure. She's just…really busy preparing for the conference. And doesn't want…she just doesn't really want to talk, right now. I think…I think she's a bit nervous, actually. She wants to focus on one thing at a time. You spoke with Mary, yesterday. She told you. Conference, and all. May I speak to Dad?"

"Um, right. Right. Sherlock - ?" John called.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in his pyjamas and dressing gown, a shirt in each hand, with hair tousled. "Purple or red?" He muttered to himself. "Purple or red?"

He scowled and raised his voice just a bit. "She always _liked_ the purple shirt…should I bring it? Or not? Not. Definitely not. Indifference." He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _thats-the-key. _ "But…hmph. There are so _many…social…things…to_ consider. I don't want...John!" He shouted that last word.

John grimaced sympathetically at his friend and rubbed a hand over his face. "Gigi wants to talk to you," he said, holding out the mobile.

"Ah, Genevieve," Sherlock muttered, and threw his shirts over the back of his armchair as he grabbed the phone. "I…trust you are well."

"Yes, thanks. I'm…actually wonderful, Dad."

Sherlock smiled, but it was almost painful and very brief. "We'll be there tomorrow morning, by eleven your time. We've already gotten the rooms booked, though they're most likely quite far from…yours. Based on the percentage of rooms booked at this particular hotel, the conference looks to be quite popular. I-"

"-It is!" Gigi assured him. "It is! And most of it is Mum's team. And her work. It's really – really amazing!"

There was an awkward silence for a moment that sweet Gigi quickly rushed to fill. "And she's looking forward to seeing you again," she said quietly. Reassuringly. Uncertainly?

Sherlock blinked, then swallowed. He wasn't…he wasn't sure how to respond to that. _What did that mean? Was she really…looking forward to it? To…seeing him again? If so – why? Was…was __**he**__ looking forward to seeing __**her**__ again? _

No. Of course not. There was nothing to 'look forward' _to_.

He'd moved _on_. That…past…_their _past…didn't _matter_ anymore. She was…she was Doctor Hooper, lead pathologist at Queen of the Valley medical center in Napa Valley, California. She was a respected scientist and medical professional whom he was going to meet and…exchange daughters with.

He was not angry. (For some reason, based on John and Lydia's careful observation of himself – well – they seemed to have been expecting anger as an emotional outcome to learning he would meet…her…quite a bit sooner than expected – but he did not feel angry at all. He thought perhaps it would be easier to be angry…but his anger had been spent many, many years ago.)

No, definitely not angry.

And he was definitely not nervous.

What would be the point of nervousness? Nervousness implied that he was uncertain about something. Uncertain about where they stood, or the outcome of the exchange.

But that was ridiculous. He knew what it would be like.

Polite introduction – polite exchange – here, he studied his daughter, sitting on the couch beside John, flipping through the newspaper and the book on crime-solving he'd gotten her two days ago, and smiled, and thought - perhaps, also, a polite renegotiation of custody. He…loved both of his daughters, and….did not believe returning to their previous arrangement would prove satisfactory to either of them. To any of them. To anyone.

So, polite introduction, polite exchange, polite renegotiation – polite good-bye.

Indifference, personified.

That was how it would happen.

That was how it _had_ to happen.

So no, not nervous.

And yet - he couldn't deny there was…something. He was definitely feeling…something. Fluttery. In his stomach.

It was entirely unnerving and ridiculous.

Stupid social conventions and social protocol.

Stupid human nature.

He would be happy when this was all over and behind them.

So…yes. Perhaps he was looking forward to this…exchange.

The sooner it happened, the sooner everything could go back to normal. (With a few minor changes, of course. He would very much like to see both of his daughters regularly, now.)

Surely, that was what Gigi meant as well. Mol – Doctor Hooper was one of the slightly more…rational women on the planet. Surely, she felt that the sooner they met, the sooner they could put all of this behind them, and she could…return…she could return to her life. As it was now.

It would be best.

Surely that was what Gigi meant when she said…Dr. Hooper was 'looking forward to it.'

Surely.

"…Dad?" The faraway voice prompted him away from his thoughts.

"Yes," he said, confidently now. "Yes."

"Um…I asked you…which song you think I should play, when you bring my violin. Not…not exactly a 'yes' or 'no' question, Dad."

"Right," he replied, switching gears. "Of course I meant yes, we will bring your violin, and whatever you choose to play will be perfectly acceptable. Did… Lydia tell you about your…present?"

"Yes!" Gigi cried happily. "Oh, Dad, she did…I'm sorry…I know you probably wanted it to be a surprise…but I _was_ surprised, and I am so, so excited to play with the LSO at the end of August…so _very _excited!"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. I _knew_ you would be. Much more excited about that, than, say-" he shot a look at John – "the newest _Yo-Yo Ma_ CD?"

John glared, and Gigi laughed. "Not good, Dad. I love _both_ of my presents. But really, what do you think I should play for everyone? I'm a bit nervous and would like -"

"Oh, for _goodness'_ sake!" Exclaimed Lydia, as she flung her newspaper to the pile on the floor and stood up abruptly. "Put her on speaker, Dad, so we can all hear each other better and we'll work this all out now, because you _promised _you'd teach me how to take samples from that kidney in the fr-"

"You have a _kidney _in the fridge?!" Gigi's voice shrieked over the phone. "What about the rules? I thought-"

"_Focus,_ Gigi!" Lydia interrupted. "Dad, speaker?"

Sherlock and John both raised an eyebrow at her outburst.

"Please," she amended with a smile.

Sherlock complied, amused.

"Now," Lydia began, with a business-like look in her eye – "now here's the thing. We leave for the airport in less than three hours and _none_ of us are packed." She rolled her eyes at Gigi's exclamation of disapproval on the line. "I guess without Mum I'm a little bit of a procrastinator. Sue me. So obviously, we need to cut this little chat short and get a move on. Dad – you'll be fine. In case you haven't realized this, you're pretty handsome. You're a good-looking guy. I'm pretty sure every woman around, including Mum, will think you look amazing in whatever you wear. Bring both shirts. We'll be there for more than one day, you'll need more than one shirt – bring both. In fact, bring several in case…who knows…you deduce some crime or something and someone punches you in the nose, like that time -"

"-and pack your pyjamas," John added, interrupting. "For _all_ our sakes, Sherlock."

Lydia looked at him strangely for a moment, and then continued. "Okay then, obviously we need 'pyjamas'. So Dad, there you go, problem solved. Gigi – Mum will be super impressed with _anything _you play, you know that, so quit worrying about it. If you're really worried, play a cover of the Beatles or some folk rock pop song or something – she'd like that. Of course, she'd like anything classical too. A waltz, maybe. I dunno. Whatever. Uncle John, stop worrying about Mum and let her focus on her presentation for her conference. Worry about our tickets and getting us _to_ the airport with everything we _need_. Are we good?"

There was silence for a moment, and then – "You're a bit bossy, you know," Gigi said over the phone, giggling.

"Well, _someone_ needed to be the voice of reason here! You're all…_freaking out_ and _over planning _and over-thinking and we're not even _there_ yet. It will be _fine_. Sheesh!" Lydia said, crossing her arms across her chest in frustration.

Apparently, Lydia's outburst shook Sherlock out of his mind-palace social-conventions-for-meeting-an-ex-wife mode, and into practicality mode.

"Absolutely correct, Lydia. Gigi, I will see you shortly. Tomorrow. After eleven. John – get packed. Lydia – you too. If you finish within thirty minutes, we will have time to dissect that kidney-"

"Gross, Dad!" Gigi exclaimed, just as Lydia pumped her fist in the air and yelled "Awesome!"

"_Please_ tell me there won't be any of that kidney left next to my orange juice when I get home," Gigi begged to whoever was still listening on the line.

John took the mobile from Sherlock, who was now back to packing his suitcase with his usual levels of smug self-assurance.

"I promise, Gigi," John reassured her. "Your Dad sends his love, as does…Lydia, I'm sure." The girl had run up the stairs two at a time to pack at the first mention of kidney dissection.

Gigi sighed. "Thanks, Uncle John. See you all soon. Love you!"

"Love you too, kiddo. See you soon."

* * *

_Sacramento, California_

_Friday, 10:12 a.m._

Gigi hung up and looked around the hotel room in Sacramento they'd checked into the night before, bouncing slightly on the bed.

Very posh, yet very comfortable, with bright open windows and a great view of the mountains in the distance. They'd definitely given her Mum a very nice suite. She wondered what the rooms her father, uncle, and sister had booked looked like, inside.

She was nervous, and excited, and _ready_. They'd checked into the hotel late on Thursday evening, with the hope of having plenty of time to both prepare for the conference and relax, in equal measure. The schedule this afternoon contained an opening luncheon for all the presenters and their families, a few hours' break to relax, and a fancy welcoming ceremony in the evening that Gigi-as-Lydia was not invited to attend.

_Thankfully_, Gigi and Mary were both sharing the suite with her Mum, and Tom had found his _own_ arrangements halfway across the hotel. And _thankfully_ his room was nowhere near her father's, either. Six floors separated those two. Thank goodness.

"Any news?" Mary's voice interrupted Gigi's thoughts, which were beginning to verge on worrying again. The woman ruffled Gigi's hair playfully before flipping open her suitcase and rummaging through it for a change of clothing. All of the women had slept quite late, and after Molly had left for a light brunch date with _Tom_, Gigi had wasted no time in phoning Lydia – _just to be sure_ everything was still going according to plan.

"Just that they're leaving for the airport in three hours, they'll be here tomorrow at eleven – what time is Mum's presentation, tomorrow?"

"Noon, exactly. Was supposed to be at nine, but somehow some ignoramus scheduled a dissertation on 'the study of bees and their application to human social networking' in the room your mother was supposed to give _her_ presentation. They've already got a sample hive in there, and apparently, you can't move them too much. The bees. Have to wait until after the dissertation. So your poor Mum's presentation was rescheduled." Mary snorted, trying hard not to chuckle at the ridiculousness of the situation.

"Good." Gigi sighed nervously.

Mary raised an eyebrow as she chose a simple sundress for the opening luncheon that was scheduled to start in a few hours. "And why is that good?"

Gigi blushed. "No reason." Seeing Mary turn her I-don't-believe-a-word-you're-saying look up a notch, she looked away and sighed again. "Fine. I was…sort of…hoping he might see part of her presentation. So they'd have something to talk about besides…their trouble-making daughters."

Mary smiled kindly at the heels she was holding in her hands, and sighed. "Gigi...this whole thing will be quite a shock to your poor Mum. Don't get me wrong-" she turned and studied Gigi seriously. "I think what you girls did was brave, and smart, and right. You deserve to know your mother, and based on how you've turned out, and how happy Lydia is at the moment, in London – well – I certainly think Lydia deserves to know her father."

"He's a great father," Gigi said, almost argumentatively. She had been needlessly defending her father to Mary ever since her secret had been uncovered. It was as though the extremely perceptive child believed that somehow, because Mary was Molly's best friend, she would automatically strongly dislike the man who'd broken Molly's heart. And so Gigi talked him up at every private opportunity the two of them had.

And though Mary did have a few choice words of wisdom she'd like to impart on the man - the truth was, Mary knew he was a great father. It was reflected in Gigi – in the fact that her kindness and sweetness were unhindered, and in the fact that her obvious talents had been enthusiastically encouraged in the ten years she'd been alive. It was reflected in Lydia, as well – Mary had spoken with her over the phone for a short time, along with the man they both called 'Uncle John' (who'd seemed to be a great father figure as well), and apparently, Lydia was extremely happy with him. If his daughters spoke of Sherlock Holmes with such unabashed love and adoration, she knew he was a great father.

And really – though Mary was doing her best to withhold judgment until she could meet the man himself – she was already leaning toward the idea that he was a great man. She'd done her fair share of research on Sherlock Holmes, and was impressed with his history as the brilliant consulting detective and now - apparently brilliant father, as well.

Of course, that didn't change the fact that he was also a brilliantly great _idiot_ for mucking things up with Molly and then letting her go.

But even Molly didn't speak overly-poorly of him. She rarely spoke of him at all, but when Mary did manage to get her to open up a few times, the woman always ended the conversation with a sigh, an overly-bright smile, and a breezy quote from Charles Dickens - "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." Mary had come to know Molly very well in the past ten years, and although she was wary, for her friends' sake - she was also insanely curious to meet the one man (aside from Tom) who managed to hold Molly's heart.

Still, she smiled generously at Gigi as she squeezed her arm and reassured her. "I know, sweetie. I can tell he's a great father, because you, Genevieve, are a great daughter."

* * *

_Sacramento, California_

_Friday, 12:28 p.m._

Things went swimmingly the rest of the afternoon.

Except for the few minutes when they didn't.

Molly returned to the room with Tom just as Mary and Gigi finished getting ready for the luncheon, leaving Tom sitting awkwardly in the room with them as Molly got ready for the luncheon herself.

It was infuriating because it was as though he just didn't understand just how much Gigi disliked him. And even though Mary's part in the conversation was always polite, it was _just barely_ so, as well. Distant.

And Tom didn't care. Though Gigi frowned and stared and narrowed her eyes at him and gave him the shortest answers possible while still staying in the realm of 'polite', nothing phased the man. He still grinned that oblivious, easy-going grin that made Gigi wish she were skilled in the art of magic facial reconstruction. She'd…she'd give him a gorilla face, for sure. Or maybe a beak. _You can't grin with a beak, can you?_

When Molly called for Mary to come help her with something in the other room, Gigi was left alone with Tom and his _grin_.

So she decided to 'stick her tongue out at him', as Mary had round-aboutly encouraged her to do.

"Tom," she said, and was frustrated when it came out soft and unsure. "Tom," she tried again, and this time, it was definitely stronger.

He leaned forward a bit, his grin softened with curiosity, but obviously pleased that she was initiating some sort of conversation on her end. "Yes, Lydia?" He asked.

"You seem…you seem like the sort who appreciates honesty."

He raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

Gigi took a deep breath, and felt her cheeks flush. _Bother_. She was not used to this. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, keeping her gaze steady with his. "Well, I'm going to be honest. I don't know you. I've only met you last week. But I can tell you're acting. And I don't like that. So…" she cleared her throat, reminding herself to _stay American_. "So cut it out. If you do, maybe I'll like you. Maybe I won't. But I definitely don't like what you're doing right now. Stop trying to win me over. You can't just because you _want_ to." She shoved her hands under her knees, because they were shaking, now. "Understand?"

Throughout her little speech, Tom's grin melted off of his face. When she was done, he blinked at her for a moment, and then the grin returned. Well…it was more of a smirk. A mean smirk.

"Oh, I understand, Lydia," he said, and his voice was still calm and gentle, but there was an edge to it that made Gigi swallow. "Your mother warned me you could be brutally honest. I'm glad you finally came out with it. And now I'm going to be honest with _you_. I love your mother. I love her work, I love her sweet, kind personality, I love her intelligence. I love her. And I am going to marry her. I am going to marry her, and I will be your fath-"

"You will _never_ be my father-" Gigi hissed quietly –

"-I will be your _father_," he insisted, "and there is _nothing_ you can do to change that. _Understand_?"

She scowled at him.

His next words made it worse, because he looked almost…sympathetic. "Look, Lydia," he said sternly. "I understand this is a big change for you. And while I'm certainly not encouraging you to 'do your worst' – because I've heard the tales your mother's told me – I am telling you, right now, that no matter _what_ you do – I'm not going anywhere. Unlike your mother's previous suitors, _I'm _not going to let a ten-year-old girl break apart the relationship I've built with her. Understand?"

Gigi grimly nodded her understanding, eyes still meeting Tom's defiantly despite the burning blush on her cheeks - but she couldn't help her lips twitching as she thought – _what about __**two**__ ten-year-old girls, and the sudden reappearance of the world's best Consulting Detective?_

* * *

_Sacramento, California_

_Saturday, 8:00 a.m._

The alarm woke Molly at precisely 8:00 a.m.

Groaning, she quickly rolled over to quiet the alarm before it could wake Lydia and Mary. Mary's alarm would go off in another hour, and Molly wanted this quiet time to prepare herself for the lecture she was giving on cellular regeneration. It wasn't ground-breaking, per se – but Molly had developed a fairly exciting method utilizing a unique protein mixture for somewhat controlling the speed of mitosis in certain cells, which could prove useful in many medical fields – the two foremost being pathology – (arresting decay in corpses) - and cancer research – (slowing the spread of cancer cells and possibly potentially speeding the growth of white blood cells, respectively). This had been done before, but her solution was unique, and the preliminary findings were already fairly positive.

And though the previous night she'd been careful and Tom had been extremely supportive and protective, she still felt like she'd stayed out too late. She'd wanted to retire around nine – she'd wanted to say good-night to Lydia – but Tom had persuaded her to enjoy her night of 'high-class adult fun', and so she'd phoned Lydia to say good-night and she'd stayed out until nearly midnight.

She frowned and shook her head, clearing the remaining cobwebs of sleep away.

Today was the day.

A bubble of excitement and nervousness rose in her stomach. A wide smile spread itself across her face.

Today was the day, and all of her favorite people would be there to share it with her.

Lydia.

Mary.

Tom.

She pushed down the feeling that someone was missing from this – determinedly ignoring the idea that a certain…someone would have found her methods and research clever and original and would have been proud of her. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and then released the breath - and the pang of longing for something long gone - with it.

Yep.

She had everyone she needed – everyone she _wanted_ – right here.

Today was the day.

* * *

_Sacramento, California_

_Saturday, 11 a.m._

"Uncle _John_," Lydia huffed and scolded, releasing her grip on her father's coat sleeve to readjust her grip on her suitcase with her other hand, before quickly latching on again and pulling him firmly back toward them – _thank heavens her fingers were nearly back to normal – just some faint yellow bruising around a few knuckles, now, or this would definitely hurt - _ "Did you _have_ to go and give him that apparently super-strength sleeping pill? That was _really-_"

John sighed and shrugged not-so-apologetically. "You _saw_ how he was getting, Lydia. I was afraid someone was going to take the liberty of dropping him off somewhere over the Atlantic - _without_ a parachute. Especially after deducing that the head stewardess was pregnant with the co-pilot's baby. I thought there would be a mutiny. And then where would we be?"

"Well, where are we _now_?" Lydia complained, using her head to gesture to her father, the Great Consulting Detective, who was currently staring bleary-eyed and frowning at the luggage carousel with a confused look on his face. "He can't meet Mum like _this_!"

John shook his head. "He'll be fine in half an hour. He's already awake and walking, isn't he? His brain'll just take a moment to…I dunno…reboot, mmm? Besides, sleep was probably good for him. He was getting all…"

"-wonky?" Lydia supplied. She'd had to agree, he'd seemed to be trying _too_ hard to make it appear like absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Like he hopped on planes to travel halfway around the world and see his ex-wife to exchange daughters all the time. And he'd gone into cool, snide deduction hyper-drive the moment they'd left Baker Street. She supposed she should be thankful Uncle John had managed to convince him to swallow that pill a mere hour into their journey.

"Mmm," John agreed, picking up the remainder of their luggage. "Shall we?" He gestured to the line of waiting taxis outside the baggage claim.

Lydia took a deep breath, and reattached herself to her father's coat sleeve. "We shall."

* * *

_Sacramento_

_Saturday, 11:08 a.m._

Randy Keeler usually prided himself on being a calm, collected, kind sort of person - but the past two days had not been going his way. His flight had been re-routed. He was supposed to have been at the conference in Sacramento to give a lecture on analyzing antibodies in blood to help determine cause of death, but his flight had been seriously re-routed, and apparently they'd rescheduled his lecture for six p.m. – (no one attends the five to seven slots – they're all at dinner!), because a Dr. Hooper had to take _his_ time slot because some bee-keeping idiot had taken _her_ prime slot. He'd burnt his tongue on the coffee at the airport – the same airport that had now apparently lost half of his luggage, and now – _now – _just as he was about to _finally_ complete the last leg of his seriously jacked-up journey – a tall, admittedly good-looking _jerk_ with a child and short man in a sweater in tow tore apart his entire career in thirty seconds.

"You never really _earned_ your Ph.D., did you?" The tall man peered down at him, blinking sleepily.

"I beg your pardon?" Randy Keeler asked incredulously.

"It's in the fingertips," the tall man said knowingly. _Was he on drugs_?

Randy Keeler shook his head and focused on waiting for the next available taxi.

When he didn't respond, the man continued. "You don't regularly work in the lab. If you did, you'd have telltale scars and indentations from work with microscopes, pipettes, chemicals, so on - boring…boring part. The point is…"

The man yawned once, and blinked rapidly.

Randy Keeler was scowling angrily up at the man behind him –

"-The point is, you've got a brain, but are too lazy to use it to work out your theories in the lab. No one earns a Ph.D. who's…too lazy in the lab." The man lowered his head, just a bit, to stare more fully at Randy Keeler.

"And your daughter is shagging that unfortunate loser from the…supermarket you disapprove of."

"WHAT?!" Roared poor Randy Keeler.

And then the tall man was gone, disappearing with the child and sweatered man into the taxi that should have been meant for _him_.

* * *

_Sacramento_

_Saturday, 11:30 a.m._

"How are we doing?" A warm voice greeted Molly, and she turned to face Tom with a smile.

Her smile faltered, just a tad, when she saw what he was wearing.

An elegant dark suit with a crisp purple shirt. He'd never worn anything exactly like it before – and yet - it was…too familiar.

"Great. I'm just arranging my visual aids," she said, a little too brightly. "And…you…didn't have to dress up, for this, Tom. A button-up and slacks would have been perfectly-"

"Don't be silly, Molly!" He interrupted, giving her a quick, soft peck on the lips. "This is a big day for you, and I didn't want to detract from the beauty of your presentation by showing up to support you in mere _slacks_." He teased.

Molly snorted, just a bit, and swatted at his shoulder, blushing. _It really didn't matter what he was wearing, anyway._ "Well, then – help me finish up before they start letting people in. Seating begins in fifteen minutes."

"Anything for you, Molly," he smiled warmly.

* * *

_Sacramento_

_Saturday, 11:47 a.m._

Gigi's mobile vibrated with another text from Lydia.

_Almost there. In the lobby in 5. –LH_

She bit her lip. This was cutting it close. Mum's presentation started in about fifteen minutes, and it would be difficult to make sure the timing of everything went precisely so that Dad could overhear her presentation without alerting her to his presence.

"Everything all right?" Mary gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

Gigi let out a long breath, and nodded. "They'll be here in five," she explained.

"Right," Mary nodded. "I need to go take my seat for the lecture – make sure you at least make an appearance in there, at some point. Your Mum's too nervous and the room's too big to notice you missing, but…you should still make an appearance. Keep him out of sight until she's done and we've had a chance to chat with her, though, okay?"

"Right," Gigi nodded once, resolutely, and went to move through the busy hotel to get to the lobby and meet her sister, father, and Uncle John.

* * *

_Saturday, 11:52 a.m._

"Whoops, there we go!" John said, redirecting his friend into the hotel lobby and out of the way of the entrance doors. Sherlock had reached the revolving doors once out of the cab, and had continued walking straight around them and out into the daylight again.

Lydia gave him a dirty look. "You said he'd be fine in half an hour!"

"He _will_ be. He's _supposed_ to be," John said, and gave Sherlock a little shake of the arm, as though it would jolt him out of his stupor more rapidly. "Now, Sherlock – snap out of it, eh? What did I have to eat on the plane?"

Sherlock gave him a disdainful, if slightly unfocused glance. "The pasta. And later, coffee and the cheese and crackers, though you would have preferred the stewardess who served them to you. Too many carbs for your body type." He shook his head once, firmly. "What did you _do_, John?" He snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.

"All I did was give you one of those 8-hour sleeping pills! Hours and hours ago!" John protested.

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration. "The ones from the kitchen cabinet? Above the stove?"

"Yeah, the ones from the – don't tell me you _altered_ them, Sherlock," John said, suddenly realizing why they'd had such a strange effect on his friend. He rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. "You _idiot-_"

"_I'm_ not the one who administered medication to a patient without first checking the contents of the pill!"

"Dad?!" A small, familiar voice interrupted the two men arguing.

John and Sherlock turned, and a wide grin and closed-mouthed, genuine smile graced the lips of both men, respectively.

Gigi ran up to the small trio in the lobby, and threw her arms around her father's waist, first. "Hi, Dad." She smiled up at him.

He smiled down at her. "Genevieve," he greeted her warmly.

"Sorry about the switch, Dad, but apparently you and Mum still have a lot in common, because you both picked the same summer camp for both of us – and I just had to meet her, and she's _amazing_, but I'm sorry because I know I worried you, but I'm fine, and don't you love Lydia? And-"

"Genevieve," Sherlock repeated, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, and shook his head once again. "I've missed you. _You_ never would have let your uncle drug me-"

"Hey!" John and Lydia protested in tandem, but smiled when Sherlock flashed them a quick smirk.

At that, Gigi released her father from her grip, and bestowed one of equal affection on her uncle, before coming to her sister.

The grinned at each other for a moment, before Lydia stuck out her hand, eliciting an impromptu performance of their special handshake.

John shook his head, smiling at the two of them.

"Right, let's just get us all checked in, mmm?"

* * *

_Saturday, 12:03 p.m._

Sherlock shook his head again.

_Damn John for giving him that pill. The last thing he needed at the moment was a muddled mind palace_.

John was currently checking the group in, while Lydia and Gigi chatted excitedly, looking over some sort of paper – calendar of events? Program schedule? – in their hands.

Gigi suddenly looked up at the clock – _noting the time_ – and made some sort of explanation to Lydia, then ran off into the crowd.

He was already bored and…anxious.

Stupid pill.

Stupid sentiment.

He sighed. Might as well keep himself occupied while his delightfully strange family got themselves situated in the hotel lobby.

Wandering a bit, he came across a directory for the conference, depicting the location and timing of different presentations.

_Pathology_, _3__rd__ Floor_ – that was where he should start.

Most applicable to his own profession, he reasoned.

Therefore, where he should start.

No other reason, of course.

* * *

_Saturday, 12:05 p.m._

"Sorry, sorry," whispered Gigi as she slid into the seat beside Mary, who gave her hand a silent squeeze and a brief smile.

"All okay?" Mary whispered back, after a moment.

"Um-" Gigi bit her lip. "Yes. Yep. He's here. Uncle John's getting them checked in, now. We're right on schedule."

Mary nodded, and held a finger to her lips, as Molly Hooper finished her welcome speech and delved into the nitty-gritty of her research.

* * *

_Saturday, 12:13 p.m._

Sherlock meandered seemingly aimlessly around the third floor, listening in on snippets of lectures through open doorways, subconsciously both resisting and being drawn toward room 312 -

-the room that was currently housing Dr. Hooper and her presentation on the affect of protein agents on the speed of mitosis and its affects on cellular regeneration.

He could hear alternating murmurs of muffled approval and laughter every now and then, and to his great frustration, found that his palms were sweating slightly and that his heartbeat was slightly…irregular.

He frowned.

_None of this_, he scolded his body sternly. _Absolutely none of this_.

Still, after a few moments of wavering indecision, battling between leaving the floor entirely and returning to lobby to wait for his daughters to reunite himself and his ex-wife in whatever charmingly fiendish way they had planned (and it was fairly obvious to him that his daughters were curious and hopeful about their reunion, and that thought made him feel…a bit…sad, for them. And for himself…) or - entering the room and getting his first impression of Dr. Hooper out of the way himself, with no one around to see his reaction -

Of course he decided to hear her lecture.

It was better, he reasoned, to battle any explosive, potentially harmful memories on his own, without having to worry about losing himself in front of John, or his daughters – or Dr. Hooper herself.

Best to get it out of the way now, in the relative privacy of the back of a crowded room, than in the far more awkward, intimate setting of whatever…monstrosity of sentiment his daughters had planned.

So he let a long-suffering breath he hadn't known he was holding loose from his nose, and did something he was very, very good at doing –

- sneaking into a room unobserved.

He took his place against a back wall, behind a woman with a ridiculously large hat and a man with a rather red face (_circulatory issues_), and listened to Dr. Molly Hooper present her research.

* * *

_Saturday, 12:28 p.m._

Gigi's phone vibrated silently with a text message from Lydia.

Frowning, she subtly opened it to take a peak.

Her eyes widened and her face paled, and she quickly turned this way and that in her seat, in an attempt to scan the crowd.

Mary frowned, and tapped her gently on the arm, then raised one hand in the _what's going on_ gesture.

Gigi pressed her lips into a frown, and showed Mary the message.

_Dad's MIA. Doesn't know Mum doesn't know. Could be at her presentation. -LH_

Mary closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head and sighed. She sat for a moment, then looked back up at Gigi.

Very quietly, she whispered – "I'll stay here, watch around your Mum. I'll try to head him off if I notice him. You go find him, love."

Gigi nodded, and as quietly and surreptitiously as she could – made a beeline for the door.

* * *

_Saturday, 12:43 p.m._

Sherlock hadn't expected…this.

He'd expected her research to be original and insightful, of course – he was never one to underestimate people, whether friends or enemies, and Dr. Hooper had always been original and insightful – but he…hadn't expected it to have this _effect_ on him.

_Must be the residual side effects of that damned sleeping pill_.

Because once the mild burst of adrenaline from sneaking into the room had worn down, and he was settled comfortably behind a pillar against the back wall and had deduced that no one around him was paying him any mind – once his own mind began focusing on the petite woman at the head of the room –

_The way she spoke with calm assurance, and he remembered just how intelligent and confident with her work Dr. Hooper truly was –_

_The way she made a little joke – probably slightly morbid, but her audience reacted amiably –the way he knew, even though her features were too distant to make out distinctly, that her shoulders would lift slightly in a subtle show of self-depreciating humility and her lips would twitch into a half-grin and her eyes would dart around the room, almost bashful but really quite proud at how well her joke was received – _

_The way her voice continued on after a moment, warm and welcoming and slightly excited, as though the mitosis of cells was a miracle she was inviting the room to behold with her – she had really matured, as a public speaker - _

_The way her lab coat rustled against her clothing, over her microphone, as she demonstrated a small part of her complicated technique - the smart, fashionable, slightly uncomfortable but very professional clothing she wore only for special work occasions like presentations because Molly Hooper much preferred wearing clothes for comfort and practicality when on the job – _

_Her clothing – her clothing – the smell and feel of it – the smell and feel of her, Molly Hooper, his Mol-_

He broke off the traitorous thought before it could fully form.

_She was not his, anymore. And…she never would be again. He'd seen to that quite soundly._

All of these thoughts flooded his mind in the span of a few minutes. To any of the fellow attendees in the room, he had not changed in appearance at all.

But his eyes widened and his lips parted and his fingers twitched in mild horror as he realized that he was still very much attracted to Doctor Molly Hooper.

Apparently…despite all his efforts to convince himself of the contrary, these past ten years - she still mattered.

His own reactions and…_feelings_ were enough proof of that.

He quickly, sternly rebuked himself.

_This was not good. Not Good, capitalized._

Apparently, mentally stuffing old memories into a box and locking them in an abandoned room in one's mind palace was not a very…conclusive way to deal with the fallout of his failed relationship.

And now he was faced with meeting the maker of said memories face to face, in a matter of…wasn't it moments, now? The lecture was only scheduled to be an hour long.

After a few moments, he reigned in the composure no one around him had ever thought he'd lost.

Well.

He frowned at his feet.

This didn't change the plan of action.

Polite re-introduction, polite exchange, polite renegotiation, polite good-bye.

He could still manage that, certainly.

He would have to.

For his sake.

And…for hers.

Because although she was the one who'd left…he knew he pushed her to do it. He still felt guilty.

But he could not apologize without dredging up all sorts of…_feelings_. And he'd already dealt with quite enough of those for one day, thank you very much.

_But_…he closed his eyes for a moment and clenched his jaw.

_But a 'polite renegotiation' of custody would certainly require that we at least speak to each other regularly._

Still didn't matter. He could do that. Speak to her regularly, now.

Maybe…one day…in the future…well, _well_ into the future…he would be able to think on these memories without being plagued with the unpleasant, inconvenient feelings of pain and guilt.

And maybe, on that day, he would apologize to Doctor Molly Hooper.

And maybe, she would forgive him.

And maybe…_just maybe_…there was a possibility that they could work out…a professional sort of friendship, again.

Nothing more than that, of course. Anything more than friendly professionalism was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

And he didn't want _either_ of them to feel again…what they'd felt so keenly, in the weeks leading up to their…disassociation.

Sherlock Holmes might have been a selfish man, but his desire to avoid another… attachment with Molly Hooper was as much for her benefit as it was for his.

Still, Gigi's hesitant proclamation that Molly Hooper was 'looking forward to it' resounded in his mind, and he found himself suddenly, strangely thankful that he'd packed that purple shirt.

Shaking his head once firmly to dislodge that odd thought from his mind, he refocused on Molly Hooper and her presentation.

She was taking questions, now, and smiling kindly at a young woman who'd just asked her about the chemical composition and stability of the protein solution she was using.

It was a stupid question, but Molly answered it with kindness and intelligence, without embarrassing the young woman who'd asked it.

Sherlock's lips twitched just a bit.

A few more questions were answered, and people began standing to leave.

Since Sherlock was against the back wall, his view of Molly was impeded as more attendees began to stretch and stand to leave.

He smirked.

Whatever reunion his daughters had planned, surely it couldn't be better or simpler or more professionally polite than him congratulating Doctor Hooper on well-presented research?

He would congratulate her – _never mind the sudden image of a pleasantly startled Molly in the lab as he snuck up behind her, making clever comments – and the way she would jump, just a bit, and the way her eyes would smile, even as she pulled back the corners of her mouth to press her lips together to keep from smiling too widely – _

He would congratulate her on a job well done, she would be mildly surprised and slightly nervous that he'd made it to California in time to hear her presentation, and he would invite her down to the lobby to discuss her research, and their daughters, over lunch.

_Polite reintroduction, polite exchange, polite renegotiation, polite good-bye_.

That was how it would go.

He would just be the one to start the re-introduction.

He always did like to be in control.

He made his way through the throng of people, towards the podium and display table where Molly Hooper was beginning to clean up some of her research.

* * *

_Saturday, 1:11 p.m._

Molly sighed in relief. She always felt an immense wave of shaky pride and relief wash over her after a presentation was completed, and this one was no different. Still, as she cleaned up the remnants of her presentation, she smiled. It was a good feeling. She'd worked hard, and she was very happy with the way the presentation went, all things considered.

"You did a great job, honey," Tom said, helping her to clean up the last remaining props on the table, and stowing her laptop in her bag for her. As soon as people had started clearing out, he'd leapt up to help her. She was a lucky woman. "You should do this more often."

She slung the bag over her shoulder, and allowed him to kiss her cheek. She smiled up at him, and adjusted the bag so it fit more comfortably, and then returned his kiss with a chaste one of her own. "Thank you," she said, smiling in her proud, shy way.

Tom turned enough to gather the last few things from the table, his hand still comfortingly, reassuringly on the small of her back – and Molly scanned the crowd, looking for Lydia or Mary, her hands still fiddling with the strap of her laptop bag across her chest.

Her hands froze around the strap as her eyes lighted on a face she thought she would never see again in her life.

_Sherlock?_

She was sure it was him – he was there – a few yards away - standing as still as she was, as people moved around him, exiting the room – head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed – not malicious – more – surprised? sad? _(no, don't even-)_ and - just – watching – always watching –

She couldn't move.

She couldn't breathe.

_Sherlock_.

Her hands tightened around the strap, and she noticed they were trembling.

_Sherlock_.

So many emotions bubbled up, and she wasn't sure which was the dominant feeling –

_Confusion and shock – _what was he doing here? Now? Why?

_Fear_ – was something wrong? Again – why? Why was he here?

_Pain_ – her heart thudded in her chest, and she felt like her very soul was bleeding out, all over again. _After all this time, he comes after her – __**now**__?_

_Anger_ – Why _now_? Why here? After all this time, he just had to bloody show up again, didn't he?

And, very reluctantly – tiny notions of feelings she tried very, very hard to squash – but she couldn't help the tiny thrill in her heart at seeing his face, his posh suit, his dark curls, again -

_Excitement_ – He was here! He was here, and he saw her presentation, and he was _here_.

_Exhilaration - _What would he bring into her life this time? It had been many, many years since someone woke her at all hours, enthusiastically describing cases or demanding assistance or pushing her to go further, experiment longer, find more, do more –

_Attraction_ – he still had it, damn the man. He still -

_Stop it_. _Stop it, Molly Margaret Hooper, just – stop it._

Whatever the reason he was here, she couldn't – she _could not_ let him back into her heart again.

_But he never really left, you know_, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother's chided her gently.

_But I've got Tom, and he's – he's – _

_Boring? _Now why would that be the first thought in her head? Already, Sherlock's presence was affecting her reason, and he hadn't even _said_ anything, yet.

_Normal,_ she thought sternly. _He - Tom - he's normal and wonderful and kind and thoughtful and smart and a real gentleman and –_

"Molly?"

-_And he notices when I'm in a panic,_ she thought triumphantly, relieved (_and yet also frustratingly disappointed_) when Tom moved back in front of her, blocking her view of Sherlock.

Almost unconsciously, she moved slightly, so that she could peer around Tom.

Her hands were still gripping the strap of her laptop bag mercilessly.

She scanned the crowd furtively, but the man in question had disappeared.

Her heart fell, just a bit.

_Well, it's not like that's anything new, Molly Hooper_, she scolded herself.

Still, she couldn't help the tears welling up in her eyes.

Tears of anger, and shock, and frustration – as much for herself as for the man she just saw before her a moment ago.

Because apparently, she was still very much _into him_.

_Well, why do you think you moved to California in the first place, Molly Hooper?_

"Molly, what's wrong?" Tom had moved in front of her again, and gentle concern was evident in his voice. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

She smiled a trembling smile, and forced herself to meet his gaze. "I think I have," she joked quietly, and let out a shaky breath.

Tom looked about the room, and then back at her, frowning. "Why don't we get you some air? You look like you need to sit down."

Molly nodded. "Air…sounds good."

She allowed him to lead her to the elevator and out into the sunny California weather by the pool.

* * *

_Saturday, 1:15 p.m._

She hadn't known.

Sherlock could have kicked himself. Or slapped himself, hard, three times across the face.

It would serve him right, now more than ever.

Oh, he was so _stupid_.

He was so unbelievably _stupid_ –

It was so obvious.

She didn't know – about him being there, and it logically followed that she didn't know about the switch, either –

It was apparent in the way she reacted, as soon as she saw him –

Frozen, eyes wide, like a deer in headlights – clutching her messenger bag strap for dear life – lips parted in shock and amazement, face pale –

She didn't _know_.

And then –

She was _engaged_.

He had frozen as soon as he saw the man assisting her – he scowled at the man's familiar smile, the way she'd smiled back – and then –

The man had _kissed_ her – albeit on the cheek – and she'd smiled up at him, and kissed him _back_ –

And he turned to gather the rest of their things – and Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief, because that man – that man was _wearing a purple shirt_ – and he seemed altogether too…_familiar_ looking – too _similar – _and he'd looked back at Molly, and noticed, with her hands frozen on her bag strap, the ring –

_A size too large, you great idiot_, he thought rather aggressively toward the man with Molly, but he could not focus on that for long, because his eyes returned to her face –

- And she was still frozen, and the expression on her face mirrored what he felt, at that moment – it was a battle, a war – but the sides were certainly not clear cut, this time.

So when the Imposter moved back in front of her, he made his escape.

His cheeks burned with embarrassment at his own stupidity, and at the pain he'd inadvertently caused both Molly and himself.

He had two daughters who had a _lot_ of explaining to do.

* * *

_Saturday, 1:21 p.m._

"Have you found him?" Gigi met a frazzled Lydia in the hallway on the third floor.

"No," Lydia moaned. "He wasn't at the presentation?"

"Well, I couldn't very well just walk up and down the aisles, looking for him!" Gigi protested. "I tried looking from the door but I didn't see him…?" She sounded hopeful.

"Have you found him yet?" John said, nonplussed. He'd dropped off the luggage in their room and had quickly made his way to the third floor, noting Molly's presentation and assuming his friend would of course be there, nosy as ever.

"No," both girls replied uneasily.

John looked from one to the other suspiciously. "You know it's like your father to run off, on occasion. He's still here in the hotel, I'm sure. He _better _still be here in the hotel. Wait – he's probably deducing the daylights out of some poor soul. Have you checked your Mum's lecture?"

The girls gave each other frustrated glances.

John raised an eyebrow. "Why the sudden secrecy? We don't need-"

Lydia shook her head at Gigi just as Gigi blurted out – "Mum doesn't know yet!"

John blinked at her. "What do you mean? She doesn't know we'd…be here, today?"

Lydia smacked her own forehead with the palm of her hand and Gigi had a very mournful expression on her face. "Actually, she doesn't know…anything, yet." Gigi grimaced at her Uncle's expression. "She doesn't know she's had me and not Lydia for the past week or so, and she doesn't know Dad's coming – here – she doesn't…know."

Now John had his hand over his face. "You're telling me your father is loose in a building with Molly Hooper and the poor woman isn't prepared?"

The girls swallowed, and Gigi bit her lip. "It gets worse…"

John gave both girls a very stern glance. "What could possibly be worse? And no more tricks, you two. Poor...Sherlock, if he makes a mess of this - Molly – Molly-" he shook his head.

"-is engaged," Gigi blurted again.

John froze, and closed his eyes and gritted his jaw in frustration. "_What_?"

There were tears in Gigi's eyes, now. "To – to – Prince _Hans_! He's a total tosser – I mean - I'm sorry, Uncle John, I know we should've told her, but her presentation – we didn't want to worry her, or distract her – it was really important for her career, and now it's done, so we can tell her-"

"Well, then we'd better tell her – or him - your father - before he shows up in all his glory and shocks the daylights out of her," John interrupted, then took a moment to lay a reassuring hand on Gigi's shoulder.

"Too late," intoned a marginally restrained voice behind the girls.

They both swallowed and turned to look at their father, whose hands were clasped behind his back, and whose face was dangerously impassive as he looked them over.

"It was obvious from the moment she spotted me that your mother had no idea I was arriving today. In fact, she looked as though she had no idea we were on the same _planet_, let alone in the same hotel. Explain."

"Well, we-"

"See, there was this conference-"

"-wanted to give you time to adjust-"

"-and we didn't want to distract her-"

"-didn't think you'd come if -"

Both girls stumbled over their explanations, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at them.

"And _you_," he said, focusing in on Gigi. She gulped. "I distinctly remember you telling me she was _looking forward to seeing me_." His voice softened, and she could tell he was hurt. "Why would you lie to me like that, Genevieve?"

Gigi blinked rapidly, and studied the pattern in the carpet at her feet. "I'm…sorry, Dad…I-"

Her apology was interrupted by a short, confident blonde woman with blazing eyes and a gentle, concerned frown.

Mary had seen Molly's reaction, and had followed Sherlock – the cause of it – out of the conference room, leaving Molly in (though she hated to admit it) Tom's rather capable hands. Some air by the pool would do Molly good, and she looked like she needed some time to herself to collect her thoughts. Mary thought everyone needed a good moment to collect themselves, judging by the atmosphere in the hall. And it looked like her girls needed her, about now.

"Not that I don't love a good interrogation, boys – girls -" she nodded to the group respectively – "but I think this particular brand might be better off in the privacy of our own rooms, yeah?" She offered a reassuring pat on the girls' shoulders and leveled a commanding, no-nonsense smile to the two men looking her over, after her interruption.

Sherlock Holmes was looking her over with a very critical eye, and the other man – shorter, but with the air of an army man about him – offered her his hand. "Mary, I presume?"

She eyed his hand and expression – a no-nonsense, open, apprising expression – and returned the handshake, her smiling a bit. "And you must be John. Lovely. Now – our room is on the tenth floor-"

"-ours are on the sixth," John said. "Right off the elevator. Bit closer. Shall we?" He asked, shooting a concerned glance in his friend's direction.

Sherlock was already off toward the elevators.

Mary squeezed the girls' shoulders again. "Come on, girls," she whispered encouragingly, and then the five of them crowded into the elevator, which already contained Randy Keeler, and his luggage.

* * *

_Saturday, 1:25 p.m._

It was _that man_ again.

The jerk who knew far too much about his personal life – and that of his daughter.

Randy bristled as soon as the tall man stepped into the elevator.

Apparently, the man had had a bit of a rough day as well, because the look he shot Randy as he made his way into the elevator – as though _Randy_ had somehow invaded his personal space – made it clear he was in a foul mood.

Well, no matter.

Randy self-importantly adjusted his collar, renewed his grip on the one piece of luggage the airline hadn't managed to lose, and studiously ignored the rude man beside him.

And then four more people entered the elevator – the sweatered man and child from earlier, a short blonde woman, and –

He did a double take.

Oh. An exact replica of the child from earlier.

He blinked.

_Wow, they looked similar_.

The elevator was quiet until it dinged at the sixth floor, and the company moved to exit.

The tall brooding man turned to glare at him after the others had left. "Of course they look _similar_, you idiot. They're identical twins. How you managed to fool the world into believing you're an expert in blood analysis is beyond me. Apparently the world is much more stupid than I originally believed. Thank you, for pointing out my glaring folly." And in a fit of childishness, the tall man ran his hand over the _all of the buttons _so that the elevator would stop on every single floor.

Randy's angry reply was cut short as the elevator doors shut smoothly over his irate face.

* * *

_Saturday, 1:43 p.m._

Sherlock paced the room, unsatisfied with the explanations both his daughters and Mary gave. John, apparently, had been as clueless as he. Thankfully, the man seemed to understand that now was not the time to ask about how he was _feeling_, about all this. No matter. He was sure that part would come later. He was not looking forward to it.

"I'm…really, really sorry, Dad," Gigi apologized for the twelfth time. He'd been counting. "I know it was wrong to switch on you both, and it was even more wrong not to tell Mum about it, before today, and to lie to you, but…"

Sherlock dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand. Upon hearing a sniffle, he turned and saw Genevieve sitting on the edge of one of the beds, doing her best to reign in her tears, and he crossed the room and squatted down before her.

"Forgive me?" She asked sadly.

Lydia fidgeted beside her. She had only apologized once, and been done with it, but she was still obviously feeling…guilty, as well. Or, perhaps more accurately – frustrated, that the day had not gone according to her plan. His lips tugged into a sort of smile, and he reassuringly patted Gigi's hand, and then Lydia's.

"Of course I forgive you," he said softly. "How else would I have met Lydia?"

Both girls gave him grateful smiles, which he returned briefly before frowning and pacing again.

"But we still have a problem. You lied to me-" he gave Mary a peering frown, and she met it with a smug, searching look of her own – she was entirely unapologetic, to him, anyways, but he'd already read her – ex-CIA, hired to protect Molly and Lydia, extremely loyal and a good friend to both, and apparently she'd done her job well – so he had a grudging respect for her. "- and now your mother-"

"-is currently in the arms of your look-alike by the pool," cut in Lydia, who'd moved to the window of the room and had been lazily observing the people below. "Wow, you're right, Gigi – even though I can't see his face, exactly, he sure has the same build as Dad. Weird."

Gigi jumped on the change of subject. "He is! He is weird! He's a total Prince Hans, Mary agrees-"

"-a what?" Sherlock frowned. He didn't understand the reference.

"-A Prince Hans," Lydia explained. "Pretty and charming on the outside, scheming and selfish on the inside. At least, if you're going with _Frozen_?" She shot a quick look at Gigi, who nodded her confirmation.

"-I never said I _agreed_," Mary corrected, good-naturedly. "He's got a completely clean record. No string of lovers or dead wives or crime behind him, nothing wrong with him on paper. But I don't particularly care for him. Like Lydia said, pretty and charming on the outside…and I'm just not entirely sure about what's on the inside, yet."

Sherlock frowned. He did not like where this was going.

"So…" Gigi continued, blushing and staring at her feet. "So, we didn't tell her because Mum really was concentrating on the conference, and we didn't tell you…about Tom…because…well…we were sort of hoping – at least, Lydia and I – were sort of hoping – that – you could…maybe…deduce him?" She asked hopefully.

_And chase him away_, was her unspoken addendum.

Sherlock frowned, and but kept his posture decidedly turned away from everyone in the room, and strode to stare out the window, beside Lydia. "Absolutely not," he said quietly. "It is your mother's prerogative to date and…_remarry_ if she so chooses."

"But-" Lydia began to protest.

"-I saw him briefly after your mother's presentation. I did not see anything of...concern." he said quietly. It was the softness of his tone that caused everyone else to go quiet as well. _Not that he'd seen much of the man at all. His focus had been...elsewhere. _He decided further observation may be called for. Not that he'd let anyone else know that.

"Hmmm," Mary hummed curiously after a moment, peering at the inhabitants of the room slyly, and noting the shifting dynamic amongst them. The fact that Sherlock did not want to deduce Tom said more than his silence did. "I appreciate your vote of confidence, Mr. Holmes. But -"

"-what are we going to do now?" Both Mary and John asked the question simultaneously, as John had seemed to sense the shift in his friend as well, and she smirked pleasantly at him. His lips twitched into a smile, and he inclined his head in a friendly sort of way.

She held his gaze for a moment before re-focusing on the task at hand. She still considered protecting Molly and the girls her number-one priority – but today, it seemed as though those priorities were at odds.

The girls obviously wanted their parents to…make amends, as it were.

And Molly was distraught over their father's presence.

And Sherlock…she suspected there was a lot more going on inside that head of his than he let on.

And now he was insisting, to the girls – "You are going to explain everything to your mother, and we will have a polite exchange, a polite discussion on visitation and custody, and a polite goodbye. And that is _it_."

The girls' faces fell, and he sighed in frustration. "You…don't understand. Let's…just find your mother and get this done."

And the five of them made their way down to the pool.

* * *

_Saturday, 1:52 p.m._

Randy Keeler took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and relaxed against the lounge chair by the pool. He'd ordered a lemonade – something light and refreshing was just what he needed.

The quiet murmur of activity around him was soothing.

He just needed that –

"Lemonade?" The waitress came by with that tall, refreshing, yellow glass of goodness on a tray.

Randy opened his eyes and sat up, reaching for it, and -

"Oh, thank you – do you mind? She's in a some sort of shock, I think, and the sugar would do her good." A concerned voice interrupted Randy's thoughts.

A hand reached out right in front of him and snatched his lemonade out from under his nose, offering it to an (admittedly) rather distraught looking woman sitting on the chair adjacent to Randy's.

The man who'd taken it sat at the foot of the lounge chair, patting the woman's ankle sympathetically as she hesitantly looked at the drink in her hands.

And the man – different shirt – purple, not white, like earlier – but Randy was nearly _positive_ –

"_You_," he hissed angrily, his blood boiling, surging up out of his chair and towering over the man sitting before him. "Not again, _you_!"

The man looked up, surprised. "I'm sorry, sir, I've ordered you another, and I'll pay for it, but she-"

Randy shook his head. "That was the _last_ time, you rude, arrogant, son-"

"-I beg your pardon!" The man said, clearly affronted. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else-"

"Are you insulting my intelligence again?" Randy said, raising his voice. "Because that really-"

"I never insulted your intelligence!" Protested the man before him, as he stood with his hands upright in a defensive position.

"Are you calling me a _liar_? What sort of manipulative," Randy poked the man in the chest – "maniacal" – he poked him again, hard – "_sociopath_ goes around _insulting _people all day, stealing their taxis and elevators and lemonades, and knowing things no one in their right mind could possibly know? Are you some sort of _spy_? Are you-"

Here the man had looked at the woman again, and though he'd not thought it possible, she'd gone two shades paler in the span of his speech.

"You're upsetting her," the man said angrily. "Stop-"

"Well _you're_ upsetting _me!_" Randy snapped, and gave the man a final push.

Unfortunately for the man, a child had left her goggles beside the pool.

The man tripped over them and fell in with a splash that would have made even the most talented of cannon-ballers jealous.

Randy stared in horror and satisfaction for a moment before muttering a hasty apology and retiring to his room for the evening.

Shaking his head, he packed his bags, cancelled his presentation, and vowed never to accept an invitation to a conference in California again.

* * *

_Saturday, 1:55 p.m._

The group arrived outside just in time to see an irate middle-aged balding man shove Tom into the pool.

Satisfied grins broke out across three people's faces.

Mary and John were the only two _adult_ enough to feign concern for the man.

But John wasn't feigning. He quickly ran to the side of the pool, and held out his hand to attempt to assist Molly in getting Tom out of it. Mary bit back a smile, and moved to get Tom a towel.

John didn't really think it through, though, because as soon as he arrived, Molly glanced at him, a _thank-you_ on her lips, and gasped. "John?!" She cried, and released her grip on Tom.

He fell back into the pool, and nearly took John with him.

"Whoa! Whoa, let's get him out of there, yeah?" John said.

A few moments later, Tom was sitting on the lounge chair abandoned by Randy Keeler, with a towel around his shoulders, another one to rub his face and hair dry, and an uneasy frown on his face as he did so. Molly was sitting across from him in her own chair. Mary had quickly acquired said towels, and Molly was too preoccupied with making sure Tom was all right to notice her daughters (plural!) moving around behind her.

After a moment, Sherlock cleared his throat from somewhere to Molly's right.

"Doctor Hooper," he greeted her quietly.

She froze again, but was prepared this time. She kept her body facing Tom, but glanced at him sideways, her expression a mixture of cool politeness and timid nervousness. "Hello, Sherlock," she replied evenly, a small smile on her face.

Or was it a grimace?

Her lips were moving too much to tell.

At his name on her lips, something…fluttered again, in his stomach. He quelled it immediately, if not very effectively.

_Cool indifference. Polite distance_, he commanded himself.

"What…" she stopped for a moment, and her lips twitched again. When she resumed speaking, her voice was calm and in control. "What brings you here?" Her eyes flickered between his face and Tom's.

Tom looked between the two of them uncertainly.

Sherlock hesitated, and studied something behind her. His lips tugged upwards at one corner, and it made something flutter in _her_ stomach.

She was just as good at ignoring it as he was. If he wanted to pretend like nothing had ever happened between the two of them...she could, too.

"Actually, Mum, I can explain that," Gigi said quietly, coming to sit beside Molly on the lounge chair.

"Lydia?" She asked incredulously, confused.

"Actually," Lydia said, coming to sit on her other side, "_I'm_ Lydia."

Molly's mouth dropped open, and she forgot all about Tom and his towels. "Lydia? _Genevieve?!"_ She looked between her two girls, and both her hands reached out to touch them gently on the arms, as though making sure she wasn't hallucinating.

Lydia grinned. "In the flesh, Mum. Back from London."

"You – you were in London? That means-" she laughed a breathy, disbelieving little laugh, as she turned to the daughter on her right.

Genevieve smiled nervously at her mother. "-you've had me this whole past week."

"Surprise!" Said Lydia playfully, and somewhat uncertainly.

"Surprise?! Surprise-" Molly had tears in her eyes, now, and Gigi looked up at her, concern and worried etched on her features.

"I'm sorry, Mum, but we met at camp, and figured it out – we do look alike, after all, and we switched-"

"-and you _switched places_?" Molly finished for Gigi, smiling now, through her tears. "My girls – you – you _infuriatingly_ clever girls- what - what are the odds – no, don't answer that, Lydia - "

She laughed and pulled Genevieve into a tight embrace. Gigi smiled an incredibly pleased, self-satisfied smile, and felt all of her concerns from the past week evaporate at her mother's touch.

Molly released her, and placed a hand on either side of Gigi's face, smoothing out her daughter's hair and looking her over intently. "I'm sorry, too - " she said seriously, after a moment, and Gigi's face fell - "I'm sorry I missed out on a whole week with my Genevieve. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

She looked up, curiously, for Mary, and found the woman smiling in her direction. She frowned at her friend. "You knew, didn't you? Why didn't _you_ tell me sooner? You knew?"

"Only for a few days. Promised I'd keep her secret until after your conference. Didn't want to distract you," Mary explained, knowing her friend would forgive her. Eventually. Probably sooner rather than later.

"Yes," Gigi nodded her agreement. "You worked so hard, Mum, and it was so brilliant, and we knew…it would be…a shock, obviously."

"-A shock that her daughters would turn out to be as amazingly brilliant as their parents," Lydia supplied, relieved the mushy reunion was apparently over, now.

But her relief was short-lived as Molly turned on her. She enveloped her daughter in a hug, and scolded her lovingly. "You sneaky, clever girl. Did you two – did you two _teach _each other things so I wouldn't suspect – oh! Wait-" She paused for a moment, frowning, and darted a glance at Sherlock, who was watching her with a practiced neutrality on his face. She recognized the intensity of his gaze, however, and quickly looked away. "How did you manage to fool _him_? I can't believe he didn't figure it out-"

"-oh, he did," Lydia said, rolling her eyes. "He figured it out after two days. Two days!"

"Two days…" Molly shook her head, and couldn't stop the grin from spreading across her face. "I'm…I'm impressed. Two days!" And she forgot herself for a moment, and turned her amazed grin on Sherlock. "We'd better watch out, for these two," she said, inclining her head toward her daughters, her arms still wrapped around both of them - something that Gigi looked pleased with, as she snuggled into her Mum's side, and that Lydia looked uncomfortable with, as she wriggled somewhat awkwardly.

And Molly's wet lashes and flushed cheeks and happy grin did something twisty and painful to his insides.

But his simply flashed a quick smile at the lot of them and agreed. "I plan on it," he said quietly.

Blinking, her grin fell away for a moment, but was quickly replaced with a small, tight smile, directed toward Gigi. "I'm…I'm so glad to meet you, Genevieve, and I-"

"_Two of them_?!" Tom interrupted suddenly. He'd finally managed to work out what was going on in front of him. "There's…_two of them_?! And I take it…this…this guy…he's…the…father?!" He didn't sound overly angry, exactly, just…shocked. And a bit put out. Which was understandable.

"Oh, he catches on straight away," Sherlock said sarcastically.

Molly frowned at him, and he looked away innocently, but held his tongue. She then turned an apologetic gaze on Tom. "Yes, er…did I forget to mention that…Lydia is a twin?"

"Um, yeah," Tom replied, snorting incredulously. "Forgot to mention that. And who, exactly, _are_ they?" He motioned to Sherlock and John – John had wisely opted to stand aside and watch the whole thing from a few steps away, grinning like a fool at the reunion between Molly and her daughters, and keeping one wary eye on Sherlock.

John shrugged his shoulders just a bit at Tom's suspicious glare and offered up a fairly friendly and apologetic, if somewhat awkward, smile. "John Watson, and this-" he said, gesturing to Sherlock - "is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock beamed at Tom with a grin that was as false and oblivious as the ones Tom had been gracing everyone else with. As soon as Tom looked away, Sherlock's features fell back into a slightly bored-looking, impassive frown, and he rolled his eyes.

Mary had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.

"Oh, um…it's…a long story," Molly grimaced.

"Well, I've got all day to hear it," Tom said. He sat back in the chair, and it made a _squishing_ sound. He sighed and closed his eyes as the girls snickered.

"Maybe I'd better change first."

* * *

_Saturday, 9:32 p.m._

Molly sighed and allowed the hot water of the shower to massage the tension out of her shoulders after what felt like quite possibly the longest day of her life.

And it had started out so well.

Really, though, she shouldn't complain.

Tom had taken the explanation with as much grace as could be expected (though he was still a bit grumpy when she left him to go to bed, that night – but she could forgive him, that).

And really, as much as the afternoon and evening had been the stuff of nightmares – it had actually turned out to be…a somewhat enjoyable experience.

Mary and John had hit it off quite nicely, and she wasn't surprised – John was always an amiable, friendly person. Even Tom had grudgingly admitted that John was sort of likeable.

And the girls – they were delightful. It filled Molly's heart with a bittersweet wonder to see the two of them together that night – telling their story of the switch, updating everyone on what they'd been doing the past week, how they'd loved getting to know their 'new' parent and the other family members in their lives (both Mary and John had huge grins on their faces after being praised by the girls), and regaling everyone with tales of drama and how they'd been found out. They…fit, as sisters.

And Sherlock…her heart did something funny, at the thought of him.

He'd been…unusual, tonight.

It wasn't that he wasn't himself. He'd obviously had no problems rudely deducing the poor man who'd pushed Tom into the pool, the hostess of the hotel restaurant, and the couple sitting three tables away from their group, that night. Even threw in a few relatively good-natured deductions about John's chances with Mary that made the man blush and glare in denial and that made Mary smirk into her wine glass.

But he hadn't deduced _her_.

Or Tom.

In fact, most of the evening, he'd outright ignored Tom.

But he'd been polite to her. Distantly, indifferently polite.

She almost wished he'd just…come out and do it, already. Deduce her. Say what he wanted to. Whatever he was thinking, up there.

Because it was unnerving to have him watch her, with those curious, seemingly indifferent eyes, and not hear what he was thinking about her.

Because she still _wanted_ to know what he was thinking.

She knew she perhaps she should just be thankful for that filter – whatever the reason it existed. He had obviously grown up a bit, being a father.

She sighed.

He was a good father. It was obvious how proud of Gigi and Lydia he was. And how much he cared for them.

She still _knew_ him, of course – the knowledge of his quirks and tells and signs came back quickly, over the course of the evening – and she could tell he caught himself a few times; he avoided correcting the girls and only interrupted their story a few times to add little details of his own.

He had watched and listened somewhat patiently to the girls, to Mary – even to her, once she'd been brave enough to offer up a few comments and stories of her own. The girls had put her at ease, and though having Sherlock at the table had her on edge, she felt…better, somehow, at the end of the night.

Like a weight was lifted off of her heart.

She'd survived a reunion with Sherlock, and she was no worse for the wear.

In fact, she thought she could probably do this again.

Perhaps not regularly, but…with some regularity.

Because of course, now that she knew Gigi, she loved her every bit as much as Lydia, and she couldn't imagine not seeing her again. Everyone had come to Molly's suite, after supper, to listen to Gigi play.

As Sherlock listened, a small, proud smile graced his cool features, and when Gigi's performance was finished, he had bid everyone a quiet good-night, kissing his daughters on the cheek as he left the room.

Before Gigi had played, however – to her surprise, when the girls suggested they meet for brunch in the morning – _as a family, Mum and Dad – sorry Mary and John…and…Tom…but just as a family_ – everyone agreed. Even Tom. Even Sherlock.

Well, at least - Sherlock hadn't protested. And when Gigi had walked quietly to him, squeezing his hand gently once, and asked him if he would come, he'd nodded and offered Gigi a brief smile.

Molly let her thoughts on the man trickle off as she finished her shower and got ready for bed. She combed through her wet hair, drying it just enough so it wouldn't soak her pillow, brushed her teeth, and turned off the light before opening the door, so as not to wake Gigi, Lydia, or Mary if they were already asleep. Lydia had opted to stay with them, for the evening, so she could stay with her sister.

Gigi and Lydia were asleep on the sofa bed, exhausted from the worries of the day, but Mary was sitting on one of the double beds, awake and playing with her mobile, the bedside lamp turned on the lowest setting.

She didn't say anything when Molly emerged, and – thankful for the silence – Molly climbed into her own bed, beside Mary's.

She arranged her pillows and pulled the smooth, cool sheets up around her.

She sighed, and glanced at Mary, who was smirking at her.

"What?" Molly asked tiredly.

Mary's smirk just widened.

"Mary, _what_?" Molly repeated.

Mary turned her screen off and placed her mobile on the nightstand between the beds. She lay down on her side, facing her friend, with her head propped up with her hand. "I like him," she said finally.

They had one of their silent communication moments.

Molly stared at her, eyes narrowed.

Mary grinned and raised an eyebrow.

Molly raised one of her own.

Mary gave her a skeptical, knowing look and a slight shake of the head.

And Molly knew in that moment that Mary wasn't referring to John Watson, though Mary might indeed _like_ him. Mary Morstan was conveying her approval of one Sherlock Holmes.

Molly stared at her for a moment, before groaning and pulling a pillow over her head and burying her face in it. _Of all the men Molly had ever dated, Mary **would** like her ex-husband the best. _"You've got to be kidding me," she said, but the words were muffled.

"I like him," Mary repeated smugly, and turned out the light.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. :)  
**

**Just so you know, in the next chapter, we'll see a bit into Sherlock's head and why he was so well-behaved. And I'm excited for that family brunch! ;)**

**To Black Night – Thank you so much for your kind reviews! You always make me smile. I'm glad you felt Sherlock's reaction was in character. : )**

**To Arcoiris – Thanks for your review! Yes, Sherlolly does fit so nicely into other stories! There's one called "The Incredible Tale of Molly Eyre" by Robin Janette that is a retelling of Jane Eyre, Sherlolly style that I am enjoying right now (can't remember who recommended it to me at the moment, so if that was you, sorry!), and I've seen a lot of stories with Sherlolly in the place of main characters of other stories. It is quite fun. And I grew up in the 90s and have only ever seen the Lohan version, which I loved…but ever since you encouraged me to watch the original version I've been trying to find it and I just can't! (I'm sure I could youtube it, but that's not my first choice…I'd like to just watch it on the TV). The Lohan version is on Netflix, but not the Haley Mills version. Library doesn't have it, Meijer/Walmart/chain department stores don't have it…any suggestions? I haven't exhausted all my options yet but I'm really stubborn and don't like watching movies on the computer, lol. And to answer your question – yes! I tried to do Sherlock's romantic proposal justice in this chapter, from Molly's POV per your suggestion…but I fear I used up my best/most in-character 'date' in my last story. Hopefully it's still enjoyable and believably Sherlock. ****J**

******Guest reviews: Thank you so, so much for your sweet and awesome reviews! I appreciate them. **** And to one Guest in particular…you are a very perceptive individual. Tom's motives will be revealed…eventually. :) But I do think he actually likes Molly. It's just that...nobody else likes /him/. Haha!  
**

******And so, if you have time - please review!**


	9. The Way Things Were

**Hi! Thank you for your lovely reviews! **** I really appreciate them. **

**Sooooo…I have realized that this story contains a LOT more angst-iness than originally intended. I changed the categories to "Romance" and "Family" because "Family" kind of encompasses everything – drama, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, etc. – and there's definitely a lot of that in this chapter. Sadness abounds, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel. (You've seen 'The Parent Trap', right? Happy endings, all around.) Because this was supposed to be more light-hearted originally, but to make it realistic with 'Sherlock'…well…he's rather dramatic, isn't he? And I feel like he'd have to do A LOT to cause Molly to take his suggestion at face value and leave him. **

**But still - you've been warned. The beginning half or so of this chapter is…****_eargh_****. Sorry sorry sorry. Sorry. But the end starts to make things happy, again. **

**Thank you again to OpalSkyLoveDivine for your brilliant amazing discussions with me, and for introducing me to Lennon and Maisy Stella's version of "Ho Hey". I basically listened to it on repeat as I wrote this chapter.**

**Again, in case I haven't said this enough – you're all amazing and your reviews are amazing and you should feel amazing. **

**Still don't own Sherlock or the Parent Trap.**

* * *

Chapter 9: The Way Things Were

_"So show me family – and all the blood that I will bleed._

_I don't know where I belong; I don't know where I went wrong." _

- The Lumineers, "Ho Hey"

* * *

_When Molly discovers she is pregnant - after the shock and congratulations from their friends - after Sherlock gets past his 'I'm-going-to-be-a-father' buffering face and his 'I'm-rather-unprepared-and-ill-equipped-to-be-a-father" standoffish phase – after Molly has relieved his doubts in that unique and rock-solid, reassuring way only she has – Sherlock jumps in feet-first and researches and discusses with her every logical thing he possibly can about development and parenting and planning and how this is going to affect them, their home, their bodies (well, hers), their relationship, and their work. And they work out a system, regarding cases. _

_Sherlock has an interest rating, and Molly has a danger rating. For the first few months, that system works flawlessly. People come to Sherlock with cases, and he solves all the ones with an interest rating high enough to placate him and a danger level low enough to placate Molly. For any case more dangerous than a "6 – possibility for broken nose or phalanges; no lacerations larger than four inches, probabilities for injuries less than 75% but over 50%", he consults with Molly. They discuss pros and cons and sometimes have a spirited, friendly debate (which Sherlock has to admit is often half the fun), and usually, he ends up taking the case. He is always, always honest with her, about the danger, and she is always, always understanding of him, and their system works very well._

_Until the pregnancy hormones get to Molly._

_And Sherlock._

_It starts small, at first, though Sherlock notices right off – of course he notices._

_It's in the way her brow knits together when he tells her he's taking a case rated any more dangerous than a 4. _

_It's in the tension of her mouth and the worry in her eyes when he tells her he's taking a case with a danger rating of 6._

_It's in the way she wrings her hands when she quietly asks him, for the first time - without the spirited debate - not to take the case that is interesting enough to be a 7, but dangerous enough to be an 8. _

_So he doesn't take the case, partly because he is so surprised and disappointed in her request that he needs time to process the reasoning behind it. He is frustrated and tense and that leads to a lesser half-argument over dirty dishes, later, but he doesn't take the case._

_But it sets a precedent, and even though he is trying to be understanding – he also tries to explain to Molly that nothing about their rating system has changed. She's the one who's changed. Her perceptions have changed._

_"Of course my perceptions have changed, Sherlock. I'm going to be a mother. And you're going to be a father."_

_He points out that hundreds and thousands of men and women manage to be both policewoman and mother, firefighter and father, soldier and parent. There are people all over the world who face more danger than he does on a daily basis. And she grudgingly agrees, but he can tell she isn't satisfied. She still worries. _

_It grates on him, because it feels like somehow…she doesn't trust him. Like she doesn't trust his judgment._

_But it's not just she who is nervous about this new prospect of parenthood._

_Sherlock has been extremely…over-protective of her, as well. Always watching what she's eating, how she's growing, when she uses the loo, for goodness' sake. And he knows he should let up – he's not helping her or himself, and her replies are less gentle and warm and more irritated every time he brings up the latest study on the benefits of spinach or oatmeal or exercise. It was endearing at first, his hyper-attention for her and the babies (because of course the two of them never do anything halfway; it HAD to be twins), but now – now he realizes that he's becoming a bit overbearing. He's exacerbating the problem. But he feels a little lost, because there are so very many things he can't control as a parent that he has the urge to control to the tiniest detail the few things he does have power over._

_And it just gets worse. _

_He realizes that there are things about her he doesn't like – and not just that she's apparently extremely sensitive to the raging hormones in her body at the moment. And it's not the first time he realizes these things – he's always known her faults, just as she's known his – but for the first time, they really bother him, in a way he hasn't been bothered before._

_The way she runs her hands through her hair repeatedly in the evening and allows the shedded strands of hair to fall from her fingers to the floor. _

_The way she sucks on her teeth occasionally._

_The way she keeps him, with her wide, pleading eyes and soft hold on his arm (and his heart), from taking the most exciting cases he's had in months. Because though she requests, she never demands anything of him – and he finds he cannot argue with her, though he desperately wants to. If she had demanded, perhaps he would have argued, and everything would have been brought out into the open. But she doesn't demand, so he doesn't argue. Much. Because there is something – some fear of inadequacy, or of what she might say about him as a father – that makes him avoid talking to her about this problem._

_So it might be a mistake, but when she's at work late one night at the start of her second trimester, when a certain Lady Smallwood comes to Baker Street with the first ten he's had a crack at since Moriarty – he decides, for the first time, not to be honest with her about the danger level of that particular case._

_Because if he's kept from one more GOOD case he's going to crack and someone is going to end up hurt and he doesn't want it to be her. _

_After all…it's just a case. A slimeball of a blackmailer, but certainly no Moriarty. Magnusson has never, to Sherlock's extensive knowledge, strapped a bomb on, shot, or kidnapped anyone. _

_So when he casually brings it up – 'government case, blackmail – the man in question never gets his hands dirty; he deals in secrets' – and Molly casually asks him back what he'd say the danger level is, he responds with a confident 'three – hardly likely I'll even get a bruise' – she smiles and kisses him and tells him it sounds perfect, but to please, as always, be careful._

_He ignores the strange feather-like weight that settles on his chest and tells himself it's for the best._

_He soon learns that the tiny fib he told Molly about the dangerousness of Charles Augustus Magnusson was more of a full-blown lie – and a bad one. Magnusson is much more of a threat than Sherlock first anticipated. He is thankful – as much as Sherlock can be thankful – that Molly was not home when the man paid him a visit and pissed in their fireplace._

_But he decides that with two children on the way, he cannot let Magnusson continue to believe that Sherlock is a threat. He does not want to admit to Molly, though, the extent of his lie – and so, trapped in it, the plan he comes up with to convince Magnusson he's not a threat is admittedly not his best work. _

_He goes undercover as 'Shezza' and gets high and is found by an irate John three days later._

_And he realizes, as John drives him to the hospital, after calling Molly and telling her that he's found him, and that Sherlock needs to 'pee in a cup', that though none of it shows on his face - he is absolutely terrified about how Molly will react. And that feeling makes Sherlock retreat into a cold, hard place inside himself, because he knows, even before he sees her, that he has disappointed her. He has let her down. And a tiny part of him blames her for that, too, though he knows it's not exactly fair.  
_

_When she slaps him, three times, hard, across the face – he notes the tears in her eyes and the absolute fury in her voice and the fact that she has removed her wedding ring, both because it is becoming a bit tight due the pregnancy and because she cannot wear it for safety reasons at work. He is surprised and angry that he is illogically afraid there may come a day when she no longer puts it back on. And the fear that that might be better for both of them._

_When she can barely get the words out to tell him to apologize, he rubs his stubbled face and is ashamed that the first words out of his mouth are a sarcastic "I'm sorry the 'honeymoon' is over, though I'm very grateful for lack of a ring." _

_He cannot look her in the eye, afterwards. She blinks rapidly and presses her lips into a thin line and her hands are shaking as she moves to clean up the results of the test._

_He is so full of fear and anger and shame (and the residual effects of the drugs) that for the next few moments he can scarcely think straight. He makes some half-hearted, snide deductions about John, some lofty comments about how it was all for a case, and is only pulled out of his stupor by a text from his mobile. The message that the newspapers have gotten wind of his drug relapse brings him back to the point that this whole 'relapse' was to protect Molly and the girls, in the first place._

_"What?" Molly asks, danger in the softness of her voice - and he realizes that he mumbled that last bit out loud._

_He still doesn't look her in the eye._

_She immediately sets down the equipment she is cleaning and turns back to him. She is still angry, still hurt, still terribly disappointed – but there is a flash of understanding in her eyes that unexpectedly, irrationally lifts his heart. "Sherlock," she says, and her voice is deadly even as she searches his face for something. She reaches for his face, to gently force him to look at her, and he flinches – the tiniest bit – and she bites her lip and shakes a thought from her head before setting her jaw and continuing resolutely. "Tell me about the case. Tell me why you – and apparently I – we – are in danger. Tell me why you thought getting high would be a good idea. And tell me-" she darts a glance toward John, who is looking on with angry approval on his face – "tell us – John and I – tell us what we – __**we**__ – all three of us - are going to do to fix this. This case, I mean."_

_The relief flooding through him in that moment is palpable. He can practically feel his heart slow and his veins relax as he realizes what her words and actions mean. "You…want to help." Not kick him out, not to disown him, not to yell and scream and throw things or to make him earn her forgiveness – she wants to help._

_She turns away from him, still frowning, and returns to cleaning the equipment. He watches her back until she replies, "Of course, Sherlock. I want to help. I'm…I'm __**furious**__, but I want to help." Her voice catches a bit. "I love you. I-"_

_"You…love me? Now?" He asks, because…how? How can she say that, at the peak of her anger and hurt and betrayal and disappointment?_

_She must hear something like shock or disbelief in his voice, because she turns to face him again, and sees something in his expression that makes her own soften, just a bit. She gives him a Look. "I love you, Sherlock. That doesn't change just because you did something astoundingly __**stupid**__. I do not love what you did, I do not love what…what you said, and I don't particularly like you, right now. But I love you. I love you, and…I am not going anywhere, honeymoon over or not, and we are going to finish this case and move on. Together."_

_So he tells them – John and Molly – about Magnusson, and what the man has done, and what Sherlock has done, as a result. They talk into the night, but the three of them cannot come up with a solid plan that doesn't involve a ridiculous amount of danger to one or more of them. _

_Although he protests with a snort of dismissal, he is secretly glad when Molly stands to go to bed, and hesitates in the doorway of their bedroom. "Are you coming? Or…" she lets her voice trail off uneasily. _

_For some reason, her love and loyalty and the unearned beginnings of forgiveness burn him. He accompanies her to bed, silent and focused, and lies awake beside her, not touching – just – next to her - long after her breaths have turned deep and even beside him. _

_He knows, now, more than ever – that he will do anything and everything possible to protect the woman beside him. And he needs another way in to Magnusson, because he knows the man will not let up, now. The relapse did not work. Magnusson made that apparent by way of a snide text, hours after news of Sherlock's little stint hit the media._

_So Sherlock comes up with a second plan. _

_Two months ago, Lestrade and his ever-wandering wife decided to renew their vows. There were several women at the party who flirted unabashedly with him, despite the fact that he never left his new wife's side, and tried desperately to get said wife to leave early with him (he did end up succeeding). One of those flirtatious women was Janine Matthews – personal assistant to Charles Magnusson, newspaper magnate and secretive blackmailer. _

_Sherlock's second plan is Most Definitely Not Good. It will undeniably hurt Molly, but it will protect her, and the girls, in the long run. _

_He decides that that is all that matters._

_As John would say…Sherlock Holmes is a Bloody Fool. _

* * *

11 years later

Sacramento, California

Saturday, 10:17 p.m.

John started when he came out of the shower to find Sherlock sitting perfectly, silently still in the hideous floral armchair of their room. It was a different sort of still, though, than his 'mind palace' still. When Sherlock was in his mind palace, he did _move_, occasionally. His fingers and mouth and eyes twitched as he did who-knows-what in that giant brain of his.

This stillness, however, was complete. Sherlock could have been an exhibit in a wax museum.

Shaking his head to get the last bit of water out of his ear, John studied his friend warily. Sherlock's face was an impassive mask, but his eyes were bright and faraway. He didn't seem to notice John had re-entered the room at all – not that that in itself was anything unusual.

John finished getting ready for bed – being careful to make noise, now and then, to see if Sherlock would shake himself out of his stupor. He didn't.

Finally, with a sigh, John came and sat down on the edge of one of the double beds, opposite Sherlock and his armchair. "How are we doing, then?" He asked, matter-of-fact. He was silently thankful that the girls had decided to stay with Molly, tonight. Sherlock needed to talk some things out, and the girls did not need to hear everything that was on the detective's mind. John Watson was braced for an eruption of the Mount Sherlock kind.

But it didn't come.

John had been watching Sherlock all evening, and aside from a few deductions about the doctor and Mary – Sherlock had been quite polite and well behaved toward their little group. John would have liked to chalk it up to being for the girls' benefit, and while that may have been _partly_ the case, he knew that wasn't entirely the reason for Sherlock's slightly out-of-character behavior. Sherlock had not spoken to Tom once all night, but had responded to Molly with increasing…well…John would have called it empathy, or kindness, in another person, but with Sherlock…it was just…surprising. And slightly suspicious. He knew, from the anxious glances Molly kept darting at him all night that she was waiting for Sherlock to embarrass her, or Tom, or to make some awful deductions.

But he didn't.

Whatever Sherlock was feeling, it was slow-shifting and low-burning, not explosive.

And Sherlock still hadn't responded to him.

John sat forward a bit on the bed, and gently snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's face. "Hey, mate. Wake up. Out of that mind palace, or wherever you are. You can't stay bottled up in there."

At the motion of John's fingers before him, Sherlock blinked and frowned. "John," he stated, irritated.

John sighed in relief. "Good. You're…well…how are you…doing?" He asked again, avoiding the use of the word 'feeling'. Sherlock might close himself up again.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders stiffly in his chair, and stretched his neck from side to side. He didn't answer.

John tried to encourage him. "You did…well, tonight," he began cautiously, watching Sherlock's expressions.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head again. "No, no. I was wrong about the hostess…she moved here to escape her older sister's control, not her mother's. And honestly…you probably have a much better shot at Ms. Morstan than I originally gave you credit for."

John had frowned at this first bit of Sherlock's speech – surely Sherlock hadn't been contemplating his deductions of strangers all night – but at the mention of Mary, a flash of a grin stole across his face. "Wha- really? Wait. No. Not what I meant." He schooled his features into a stern expression.

Sherlock sighed. "I know," he said quietly.

John tried again. "You really did do well. With everything." He waved his hand through the air for emphasis.

Sherlock snorted.

John raised an eyebrow. "From my perspective, and from just about everyone else's tonight, this…reunion…was a success. The girls were happy, mmm? And Molly seemed relieved, if a bit shocked, and happy toward the end, there, and you…" he let his voice trail off.

"You didn't see her when she first saw me," Sherlock said – so quietly John had to replay his words in his head, to make sure he'd heard correctly.

"No," John said, just as quietly, after a moment. "I didn't."

He waited.

Sherlock continued. "She looked…" he frowned, and blinked, as though searching for the right word.

"She looked…_wounded_." He said, and then pressed his lips into a thin, angry line, as though upset with himself for his own choice in words.

John stared at him for a moment before nodding. _Proceed with extreme caution_, he thought to himself. "Okay," he said.

"No, it's not," Sherlock snapped half-heartedly, avoiding eye contact.

John sat back, studying his friend. "You're right," he said quietly, after a moment. "It's not okay."

Sherlock looked at him sharply, but found no condemnation in John's gaze. Just searching understanding.

Sherlock sat forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, his fingers rubbing circles into his scalp and his eyes on the floor.

When he did not speak again, John prompted him.

"You feel…upset that she was…upset to see you?"

Sherlock snorted again, but did not look up. "No."

"You're going to have to elaborate. I don't speak…whatever it is you're speaking, now. You _look_ upset."

"I am not 'upset'. After I realized that she was not aware the girls' had switched, and that she had not expected me, I adjusted my expectations for her reactions. She responded to the news as I predicted. Shocked, _upset_, then enthusiastic and…happy…when the girls made their presence known, polite, kind, a little too willing to make the girls' happy by having… _brunch_ as a family despite…" he stopped abruptly, and rubbed his head more vigorously.

John frowned. "Despite what?" He thought for a moment. "Despite…Tom?"

No answer.

"Are you…jealous?"

Sherlock snorted again, and though John couldn't see his face, he knew his friend was rolling his eyes.

"Despite…the fact that she still…cares about you?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock's hands stilled on his head. No snort this time, but still no answer.

"She does, you know. She-"

"I know, John. I know!" Sherlock hissed, and jumped up, beginning to pace. "I know! My presence could not have _wounded_ her if she didn't still…_care_. I wish…I wish she was _angry_. I could handle anger. I could handle…so many things. But...this…half-forgiveness; this…hesitant _kindness_ – and…_fear…_it-"

"You still care about her, too," John stated, quietly. Both of them knew it was the truth. Sherlock glared at him, but John continued, realization dawning on him. "You – you're _sorry_. You're _sorry_, aren't you?"

A strange sort of pained, angry grimace passed across Sherlock's face before he turned and walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. He sighed, and then, so quietly again that John had to strain to hear – "I…knew I'd hurt her, John. But I never…" he paused, unable to voice his thoughts.

Watching Molly (with…Tom) all night had been like being subjected to an ocean of revelations, wave after painful wave crashing around him. _Is this how she felt when she found out about Janine? When she realized the extent of his…deception? Because jealously didn't even begin to cover it. It's…pain. It's…so painful. Why is it painful for him, now? They've been…apart…for so long. It shouldn't bother him, like it bothered her. And still, she managed to forgive him. She forgave him then - although he messed things up again quickly enough after that. And apparently…she was…forgiving him, now. And he never asked for it…he never…why? How? He did not intend to hurt her, with Janine…but he knew that would be the result. And though he was sorry, at the time, that he'd had to cause her pain, in an effort to protect her…he didn't…realize…she'd felt…like this. He'd torn her apart, repeatedly, and never apologized, and told her to leave, and she left, and yet here she was, having dinner with him and agreeing to brunch despite…every hurt he saw in her face when she recognized him. She'd done a marvelous job masking it, but he knew it was there. Below the surface._

_He realized, again, that he never deserved her. _

_He still didn't_.

_But the danger lay in the fact that he would have her – all of her – all over again, if he could. He knew it – he'd come to realize that – throughout the evening._

_And the danger was in that…he thought…perhaps…he could convince her…to have him again, too. _

_And that thought – that selfish, ridiculous desire – made him very, very sorry indeed._

"I am sorry," he confirmed lamely, internalizing his miserable revelations and observing John's reaction in the reflection of the glass.

John was staring at him with a funny sort of confused sympathy and awe on his face. He nodded. "You're sorry. For…?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, forehead still pressed against the glass. "What do you _think_ I'm sorry for?" He said sharply.

John exhaled, frustrated. "I really don't _know_, Sherlock. I _think_ you're sorry you hurt Molly, I _think_ you're sorry she left, I _think_ you're sorry she's engaged and I _think_ you're sorry you...that she's…been _wounded_ by all this, but I really don't know. And she'll never bloody know, either, unless you _tell her you're sorry_. And mean it."

"It hardly matters, now." Sherlock muttered, opening his eyes and turning a cool gaze on his friend.

"_What_?!" John said curtly, gritting his jaw in mild anger and disbelief. "What do you mean it _hardly matters_ now? Of course it still matters! It still matters to both of you, that is _obvious_, and-"

"-and she's engaged to a 'perfect gentleman'", Sherlock said with a mocking tone, "who I'm certain will never be tempted to visit a crack house or seduce a secretary to take down a master blackmailer, and who will never leave her eight months pregnant to finish a job involving said blackmailer in Greece."

John rubbed his face in frustration, and snorted half-heartedly himself. "You – _you_." He said, after a moment. "You're a bloody fool, Sherlock Holmes. You should still apologize. Yes, she's engaged, and she's…going to stay that way. But you're still…connected to her, with your daughters, and you…she…_argh._ Only you could make feeling sorry and saying you're sorry so…_impossible_. She-" he paused for a moment, frowning and thinking, and then looked up at the once again neutral face of his friend. "Are you…worried she won't forgive you? Because I think she would-"

Sherlock gave him a withering glance.

"-All right, so no, not worried about _that_, then." John frowned again. "Do you forgive her?" He asked cautiously. "Is that it? You can't…apologize…because you can't…forgive her?"

Sherlock looked almost surprised at John's question. "What would I need to forgive _her_ for?"

John studied him for a moment. "Well…she did…I mean…the…er…"

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at the man, but his voice was even and calm, without a trace of bitterness or anger. "Are you referring to her attempts to control the cases I took? Because at the time, she was laden with pregnancy hormones and her over-protectiveness, while grating, was understandable. Or are you referring to the day she slapped me? Because her reaction then was within societal norms as well. Or perhaps-"

"Sherlock," John protested quietly, holding his hands up in surrender. "I-"

"-perhaps you were referring to her demands, when I was discharged from the hospital after I was shot, that I give up detective work entirely until the twins were born. That was a mere three weeks, in case you've forgotten. And I broke my promise to her in those three weeks, and went to Greece, and when I returned, and she confronted me, I told her to leave. I told her…" he was shouting, now, but his voice broke, finally.

Sherlock stopped, breathing heavily for a moment, and then regained control. "I told her to leave," he repeated quietly. "And she did. While some of her actions may have contributed to my…own, I take full responsibility for my actions. There is…nothing for me to forgive," he finished curtly.

John stared at him, mouth agape. He felt an almost insane amount of pity for his friend, in that moment. "Sherlock," he said softly, shaking his head and closing his mouth. "Sherlock, you need to forgive _yourself_."

Sherlock blinked, and then moved to open the door. "I need some air," he announced, and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock knew he would not sleep that night.

He took the train to Chinatown, and spent the wee hours of the morning practicing his Mandarin and contemplating the strange sort of penance he hadn't realized he was forcing himself to complete.

He decided that perhaps John had a point. Perhaps…he had to forgive himself.

And so, he tried.

When he arrived back to Sacramento with an hour to spare before the brunch, he grunted in response to John's questioning gaze, and took the coldest shower he could stand, and cleared his mind.

He could do this.

He could forgive himself (though that thought was strange and new to him), and he could eventually…eventually, apologize to Molly.

He knew he could not earn Molly's forgiveness – it was something she gave away (albeit a bit too freely in his own opinion).

But he could do his best to ensure that there was nothing she would ever need to forgive him for, ever again. That was a the new plan.

* * *

Sacramento, California

Sunday Morning

The adults were not the only beings engaged in deep conversation on Saturday night. Gigi and Lydia had been having their own deep conversations about the events of the day.

_"Did you see how he watched her at dinner? He's totally into her, still."_

_"And did you notice how polite he was?"_

_"And how he ignored Tom?"_

_"And how after a while even Mum ignored Tom, just a little?"_

_"I feel bad about that."_

_"Gigi! Focus on the mission! Operation: Reunited and It Feels So Good!"_

And they'd giggled, and Gigi, encouraged and emboldened by both her father and Lydia's presence in the hotel, worked with Lydia to further their plans for parental re-amalgamation.

The next morning, they'd been in the middle of convincing Mary to get them all brunch in the privacy of their own room – Molly's suite – while Molly was meeting Tom for coffee before the brunch; probably to reassure him that nothing would change just because her ex-husband had magically re-entered her life.

_As if._

John arrived as they were presenting their case to Mary, carefully letting himself in, and nodding to Mary in greeting. "Morning, ladies," he said, giving the room a smile.

"Morning, Uncle John," the girls chorused, and then went right back to hen-pecking a very cool, collected, amused-looking Mary.

"Please, Mary – if you can get the brunch, order room service, get a table – we'll all have brunch here. It's much more private and Dad won't get distracted-"

"-and Mum won't worry about his deductions embarrassing anyone, and we'll all be able to just get to know each other without anybody watching-"

"-because Mum and Dad, neither of them like that whole public-watching-their-private-moments thing, so it would be good-"

"-if we all had brunch privately, up here, together as a family!"

The girls finished their argument, giving Mary their best, pleading puppy-dog eyes.

Mary smiled at them, trying not to laugh. "So what I'm hearing, is, you'd like to have brunch alone with your parents, as a family?"

The girls nodded.

"In this room?"

They nodded again.

"And this has nothing to do with the fact that you're gunning for the two of them to have some alone time without Tom to see if any sparks fly?"

The girls froze, and Gigi darted a nervous glance at Lydia, who was grinning innocently.

"Nope," Lydia said plainly.

Mary laughed, once. "Well," she said, eyeing John, who was frowning thoughtfully at the back of the girls' heads, "what do you think, John Watson?"

The girls frowned for a moment, and then turned their puppy-dog eyes on their uncle.

His mouth tugged up at the corner. "Girls," he said gently, and their faces were full of expectation. "I know…" he sighed. "I don't know. Your parents are…pretty emotionally invested, right now, though they may not want to admit it, at the moment. And…as much as I would like to see them hit it off – as _friends_ – well…I," he rubbed a hand through his hair, and his expression changed, just a bit. He gave them a guarded look. "I suppose…they do need to talk…and this would...make sure no one runs away. Or gets shoved in a pool, again."

Mary interrupted, smiling knowingly at John. "We're not forcing them down the aisle, love. Just giving them some space to talk."

"Yes!" The girls cried, giving each other high-fives.

"Just space to talk, that's exactly right. They need to do that, don't they?" Gigi added.

"Absolutely," Lydia agreed. "Now, let's look at the menu again…thanks Mary!" She called over her shoulder as she and Gigi went into the bedroom to pour over ever detail of their brunch.

"Besides," Mary continued casually to John as she smirked up at him. "I've seen the way he looks at her, and the way she looks at him. If Molly has any doubts about Tom, it's best to get those out of the way, now. And-" she added at his look of surprise – "I'd like to see you in action, soldier."

His eyes widened and one eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth pulled up into a sort-of grin at her flirtatious words.

"I expect you'll help me set this whole thing up. You need to find the table." She called innocently, and walked to the bedroom door, where the girls were giggling behind it. "Have you decided on a menu, loves?" She called to them.

* * *

And so, John ended up waiting for Sherlock in their hotel room, praying that the man would show up and not skip out on the brunch he'd promised to attend.

Sherlock showed up, washed, and was ready with approximately ten minutes to spare.

As Sherlock adjusted the cuffs on his shirtsleeves, (_not the purple shirt…he…would not wear that one…)_ he gave his friend a cool once-over. "Not your best jumper, John. You really plan on sharing a meal with Mary in that, while I'm…fraternizing with my family? I'm going to have to re-evaluate your chances with her if-"

John rolled his eyes. At least Sherlock was relatively back to normal. "Shut up, Sherlock. I'm not even going to _ask_, and I don't want to know how you knew that. Change of venue, by the way. The girls want to have brunch in Molly's suite."

Sherlock froze for half a second, before shaking his head slightly and sliding his suit jacket on. "Charming," he muttered neutrally.

* * *

"You want…us…to have brunch in here?" Molly asked slowly, looking between the hopeful faces of her girls.

"Yes, Mum, please! It's so much more private, and a whole lot nicer than that loud café, and then our swimsuits are here, so we can go swimming right afterwards, so _please_, Mum – can we eat here, for brunch with Dad?" Lydia begged, while Gigi gave her mother her most hopeful, most pleading gaze.

Molly sighed, and then smiled. "Why not?" She asked, resigned. _It would be a nice quiet place to talk and think, although there wouldn't be…as much around, to distract Sherlock_.

"Thanks Mum!"

* * *

Sherlock knew immediately that brunch in Molly's suite was a mistake. John and Mary greeted them, sat them, and left, and the girls abandoned them after just fifteen minutes.

After eating a few bites, both girls announced that they were 'not hungry' (a lie, for Lydia), and that they would much rather go swimming, instead.

Molly frowned. "Girls," she said warningly –

Lydia rolled her eyes. "You'll be fine! Enjoy your brunch! Talk about your research! Talk about your trouble making daughters! Talk about how adorably irritating we are!" She flashed both of her parents a grin.

"-Or just talk about your research," Gigi repeated, giggling. "Have fun!"

And the two girls grabbed their towels (they'd been wearing their swimsuits beneath their clothes the whole time), and left without a word.

Molly and Sherlock stared at each other for moment in an awkward silence, before a nervous, attempting-to-be-reassuring smile broke out on Molly's face.

She took a bite of her fruit salad, and washed it down with a sip of coffee, before smiling at him again. "Well," she said lightly. "I suppose we'll have to get used to this kind of thing. Gigi and Lydia having their own sneaky plans, I mean."

He gave her a timid, forced smile in return. "So it seems."

After a few more moments of silence, with Sherlock sipping at coffee and Molly taking small, careful bites, she tried again, attempting to stick to some sort of safe conversation. "We'll have to work this out somehow – seeing both girls. They're so different, and yet so similar, and…I can't imagine not seeing them both regularly from now on."

His smile became a little less forced. "The…feeling is mutual." This was part of his original plan, wasn't it? _Polite reintroduction, polite renegotiation of custody, polite exchange, polite good-bye._ Excellent. Stick with the plan.

_Why did his stomach feel sick, all of a sudden? Must be the coffee._

Molly was talking again. "When Lydia was growing up, I knew you'd love her. Little thing she did…still does, sometimes, reminded me of you." She blushed and bit her lip, as though uncertain of how he'd react to that statement.

But he was determined to be kind, now, for her sake - so she needn't have worried. Besides, his curiosity was peaked by her statement. "Like what?"

Molly dismissed her own statement with a wave of her hand and laughed, once. "Oh, you know. Incredibly… intelligent. Being totally honest in an endearing way. Making a mess and refusing to clean it up, even at the ripe young age of four. Had to take her telescope away. Trying to reason her way out of consequences and things she doesn't want to do."

"It appears I am increasingly similar to a seven-year-old girl." It was a joke – his eyes were laughing and his mouth was smirking.

_Well, he's made progress. Gigi was good for him, apparently._ "Well, ten year old girl, now." Molly joked back.

They sat in companionable silence for the first time in over ten years.

Sherlock was thinking, rubbing his forefinger against the pad of his thumb. He glanced at her, and then away again. "We could trade off, halfway through the year. I could have Lydia January through June, and then get Gigi July through December."

Molly began to shake her head before he finished. "No, we can't split them up again. They deserve to be together."

"Mmmm," he agreed. Good. He hadn't wanted that, anyway. "I could get both of them January through June, and you could get them July through December. We…" he paused, looking away again. "We could…spend Christmas together. Or…the three of you, could."

And Molly's heart softened, because she knew it was out of consideration for her and her attachment to the holiday that he offered. She also knew that sort of event was likely to torture him, if he followed through with it. Best not to go with that option. "The girls would like that. I…I'd like that. But splitting them up during the school year…that wouldn't work."

"Right. School," he frowned at the inconvenience of it. "Well, you could get them for one year, and then I could get them-"

"Could you go a year without them?" Molly interrupted plainly, and Sherlock paused, considering it.

He lowered his head in defeat, and avoided her guarded, nervous gaze as he admitted – "_Could_ I? Yes. Would I – _want_ to? No."

Molly sighed, and fidgeted with her napkin. "I think this is why we split them up in the first place." She offered him another nervous smile.

"Mmm. I thought it was because you couldn't stand the idea of seeing my devastatingly handsome face anymore." It came out as a joke, but he winced immediately afterwards. _So much for the plan._

Molly's smile fell away, and she studied her plate with newfound intensity.

The silence between them now was awkward and painful.

"Do you…still find the idea of contact with me…repulsive?" He asked softly.

She looked up at him with gentle eyes and a frown. "I…I never found the idea of contact with you repulsive, Sherlock. Just…painful."

And the tired honesty in her voice made something in his chest shift painfully. He had truly, irreversibly hurt her, and he was only now beginning to fully understand the depth of his…hurt. Of how he'd hurt her, and how…they'd hurt each other.

"There is one glaringly obvious solution," he said, and his voice was almost gentle.

She looked at him expectantly.

"You could move back to London. I'm sure Mycroft-"

And apparently it was the wrong thing to say, because her face hardened again, and she sat back in her chair, that space of inches widening the gap between them again so that it was almost insurmountable. "Of course. _I_ could move back to London." She let out a short huff of air that almost sounded like a laugh, and closed her eyes, and added somewhat tiredly, "_You_ couldn't move to California?"

Sherlock realized his mistake immediately. _Always selfish._ And he supposed it was very selfish, to even suggest to Molly to return to London, for the sake of making things…easier, with the girls. He wanted…the way things were. But he couldn't have that, now.

So he resorted to the gentle, self-depreciative humor that had always helped him out of a hole, in the past. "I've heard the position of "consulting detective" is already taken. In fact, I've heard that there are two in Southern California alone. Apparently, in the 'States', the title is given to anyone with even a modicum of observational skills and slight societal eccentricities."

And Molly smiled in spite of herself. "That's true." She met his eyes with her own and sighed. "Mmm. Maybe we should just ask our girls to solve this for us. They're apparently quite good at the whole switching places thing."

"Mmm. I think it should be obvious by this little brunch what their solution would be." He looked away, and reminded himself to _be kind. Let her go. Don't give her anything else she needs to…forgive._

Molly nodded, looking away.

"But Tom seems…normal."

Molly couldn't tell if it was meant to be an insult or a compliment. When she looked at him, though, he was smiling gently and studying her reaction carefully.

"He…is. He's…lovely. PhD in Bio-medicine, met…actually, at work, but he wasn't…working, really. Some friends introduced us. He was touring my hospital – well, not _my_ hospital, but the one I work at, and, h-he-" she stuttered, pressing her lips together, flustered, and swallowed.

He attempted to relieve her stress. "Not every man you fall for turns out to be a sociopath," he said gently. Kindly.

Her eyes darted up at him, and she smiled a small, quivery smile at him.

He would almost say it was adoring, if he didn't know better.

He quickly looked away, again, and added softly, "But we can't do this again, can we?" He said, gesturing to the private brunch in front of them. He still had that same resigned, kind, almost pained smile on his face.

Molly smiled – or winced – at her plate, again, before looking up at him. "I had…I mean…this was…not…_bad_," She said apologetically. "It was…lovely," she continued determinedly. "But…no. I…can't. We can't."

She looked up at him to smile again, and he held her gaze for a moment before replying.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper," he said softly. "You deserve happiness."

She blinked for a moment, eyes darting to the table again, lips moving from smile to frown and back again.

He realized that she didn't quite believe him, but he…_needed_ to make her believe this. "No," he said suddenly – almost too forcefully – and she looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I mean it. You…made everything possible," he said, trying to make her understand. "My life – my death," he joked, lips twitching into a smirk – "And my life again. Lydia, and Genevieve…" his voice faltered, and his Adam's apple bobbed, but when she looked at his face, it displayed nothing but a neutral, gentle sort of encouragement. "You deserve happiness," he repeated.

She nodded, once, to show him she understood.

He stood, and hesitated, and his eyes flashed over her face, and down to her hands, where she was twisting her size-too-large engagement ring over and over again, and then he looked back to her face, again.

He stepped forward around the table, and hesitated again. She stood, to lessen the feeling that he was towering over her.

Sherlock stooped and kissed her quickly and chastely on the cheek, so far back he was nearly kissing her hairline, so that there was no doubt of the fact that he that he was not going for…anything else anywhere else on her face.

She closed her eyes at the feeling of his lips contacting her skin, and blinked rapidly as he moved away from her.

He walked to the door, and gave her another small, sad smile. "Perhaps you're right. We should ask Lydia and Genevieve their opinion on how best to navigate this new custody arrangement."

And then he was gone.

* * *

After he left, Molly sat down again, for a moment, staring at her mostly-uneaten brunch, attempting to focus her thoughts.

She was not exactly sure what had happened at that brunch, but something had shifted. Something had changed, in Sherlock, and something had changed, in her.

It made her nervous.

She bit her lip, and looked away as Mary came in a few minutes later.

_She'd probably been watching the door, with John_, Molly realized.

"Hey," Mary said softly, smiling at her gently. "How did it go?"

Molly let out a breath, and then smiled at her friend. "Well," she decided on, finally. "It went well."

_Too well_.

_She was in danger of falling for the man all over again._

* * *

The rest of that strange day passed, full of awkward, polite avoidance and covert glances on the parts of Sherlock and Molly, friendly, affectionate attention on the parts of Gigi and Lydia, and the sometimes smug, sometimes concerned, watchful gazes of Mary and John.

And the increasingly suspicious and jealous dark looks of Tom Parker.

Gigi and Lydia gave each other knowing glances and snickered every time they caught him glowering in Sherlock's direction.

However, their giddy excitement was cut off that evening, after supper, when Sherlock announced that he, John, and Gigi would be returning to London the next morning.

"What?" Gigi asked immediately, her face falling into a concerned frown.

"What do you mean, _leaving_?" Lydia asked, almost angrily. "You just got here!"

Sherlock looked to – _Molly_ – for support, and she smiled bravely at the girls. "Yes, but, Gigi needs to prepare for her practice with the LSO at the end of the month, you know, and we can always work out…arrangements, over the phone. We really do need to…get back to normal, girls," she added softly.

The girls in question both had serious frowns on their faces, now.

They darted a glance at each other, nodded, and ran.

Molly's mouth dropped, and she quickly reworked her expression into one of stern disappointment as she began to chase after them. Sherlock had already gone after them, surprising as that may have been, and as Tom could not be stopped from following Molly, John shrugged at Mary, and the two of them followed suit as well.

Sherlock found them ten minutes later, holed up in his and John's room. He and Molly were frowning at the door, and the rest of the adults were gathered around the two of them. Tom looked rather smug in his irritation, and Mary and John were communicating with a series of raised eyebrows, wrinkled noses, and tilts of the head.

"Genevieve Violet Holmes," Sherlock intoned sharply. "Unbolt this door and come out before John and I are forced to unscrew the hinges."

"The hinges are on the inside, Dad," one of the girls yelled back.

He frowned. Of course they'd noticed that. "I'll find a way to open this door."

"Then you'll be met with a dresser, a desk, and an armchair to climb over," another girl replied.

He frowned. They were both speaking with British accents, and with their voices muffled by the door, he could not tell which girl was Gigi, and which was Lydia.

"Girls," Molly tried sternly. "This is absolutely unacceptable-"

"What's unacceptable is the fact that I've only known I even had a sister for…less than ten weeks, now, and we've only just gotten to spend the past two days together. _That's_ unacceptable." One of the girls shouted hotly from behind the closed door. Probably Lydia, but you really couldn't tell.

Molly flushed and looked away, and no one could miss the look of hurt flash across her face.

John and Mary both opened their mouths to scold the girls for their thoughtlessness, but Sherlock beat them to it.

"Do _not_ speak to your mother in that tone, or I will rescind Gigi's invitation to practice with the London Symphony Orchestra." He was angry, and they could tell.

There was silence, and an appreciative glance from Molly, which Sherlock studiously ignored.

"You wouldn't," one of the girls said warningly.

"I would, and you know it," he replied tersely. "Genevieve can always try again next year."

The girls discussed something behind the door.

"Okay, here's the thing," one of them said amiably. "Mum – you know how you always take me to work with you for a few days before I go back to school?" _Lydia, then_.

Molly looked around the group of adults hesitantly before answering. "Yes," she intoned cautiously.

"Well, here's our deal. We'll come out and pretend this never happened and NEVER mention the fact that you lied to us for ten years again IF we ALL get on that plane back to London tomorrow and spend those two or three days TOGETHER in England. Mum can show us Bart's, where she used to work, and we'll spend a few more days together as a family, touring the hospital and seeing where Mum got her start and history and such and then we can work out how exactly we're going to do this whole…family, thing, once everyone has to go back to school and work. We'll figure it out TOGETHER, and spend some more time TOGETHER, and then we'll go from there. Deal?"

The adults studied each other warily, everyone paying close attention to Sherlock and Molly's reactions.

Sherlock's gaze flitted between the ceiling and Molly, and Molly's gaze flitted between the floor and Sherlock.

Sherlock spoke first. "Girls, you cannot expect St. Bart's to just allow your mother free reign of the building after ten years-"

"-But they let _you_ in all the time. Mr. Greg or Uncle Mycroft can work out a pass for her. Next!" The-voice-that-was-probably-Lydia's sang out cheerfully.

Molly tried, next. "Girls, I really can't afford-"

"-make Dad or Uncle Mycroft pay for the flight, you _know_ they're loaded. And we'll just stay at Baker Street, so no cost for a hotel. Next!"

Sherlock and Molly gave each other a desperate glance, united in their endeavor to avoid this…emotional entanglement.

John pressed his lips together, giving the two parents a sympathetic look. "Girls," he began, "I don't think there's room for everyone in 221B, unless your Mum slept on the couch, and I don't think-"

"-Don't be ridiculous, Uncle John. Mum, and Mary, if she wants to come, can sleep in Mrs. Hudson's spare bedroom. They don't _have_ to stay in 221B. Just at Baker Street. Next!" That voice was most likely Gigi's.

Three sets of eyes turned to Mary, who shrugged. "Don't look at me. I've got no arguments to present."

Now it was Tom's turn to speak. "I really don't feel comfortable-"

He was met with glares from three adults, a sympathetic, warning glance from Molly, and two angry, girlish voices telling him to stay out of it.

After a few moments, and a silent conversation on the part of Sherlock and Molly that Tom observed with increasing jealousy and frustration, the parents sighed.

"Deal," they said quietly, in tandem.

"What was that?" The muffled voices asked.

"Deal," Sherlock and Molly repeated, more loudly.

"But this – this running and hiding and making demands NEVER happens again. Ever." Molly added firmly.

There was the sound of moving furniture, and a lock unbolting, and then the door swung open. "Deal," both girls agreed, smiling widely.

* * *

And so, the next morning, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Morstan, Molly Hooper, Genevieve Holmes, and Lydia Hooper boarded a jet plane bound for London, England.

Oh, and so did Tom Parker.

He had protested mightily at the arrangement, after the girls had disassembled their blockade – and to everyone's surprise, Sherlock had suggested, with a mildly amused smile, that he come along, if he felt so strongly about his fiancée leaving the country with her ex-husband.

Tom had glanced at him warily, and then thanked him curtly, and hurried off to pack, himself.

Molly, Mary, and Lydia had made a quick trip back home to Napa Valley to pack more clothing before returning to the hotel. (Toby was quite happy to see his old friend, again.)

As the seven of them were in transit, in the air – several thousand miles away, Anthea walked in to her office to find her employer sitting at her desk, studying the plane's route online, and refreshing frequently to see how far the tiny plane icon had traveled. A half-cooled tea cup and plate of cake, untouched, sat beside him.

She bit back a smile. He was concentrating, indeed, to forget about the cake.

But all that concentrating also meant that he was focusing intensely on Sherlock and Molly's reunion, and now that they were re-entering his 'turf', so to speak, she knew he may (all right, _would definitely_) attempt to meddle in their lives, again. The last time he did that, it resulted in a divorce and the poor woman moving halfway around the world.

Time for an intervention.

She moved in front of the desk, and cleared her throat.

Mycroft looked up at her, and then returned his gaze to the laptop before him. "Eight hours and counting, Anthea," he intoned; sounding bored but looking for all the world like Christmas was coming.

She sighed. "Mycroft," she said softly, and moved to shut the laptop, just a hair.

He looked sharply up at her. She very rarely called him by his given name.

She smiled at him. "You need to give this a rest. They've reunited. The girls are with them – and – as you pointed out – they're quite cunning. If you try to…intervene, any more than you already have, you could very well end up making things worse. You can't control this, Mycroft, as much as you would like to. You have to let them come back together on their own. It might not happen right away.

He frowned, and allowed her to fully shut the laptop before him.

"Besides," she added, a smug, sassy tone back in her voice. "In the past two days I've reassigned protection to two foreign dignitaries and renegotiated a weapons deal for a rebel group in Kazakhstan. I can't do any more on my own, and I will _not_ allow the downfall of Britain to happen because you were caught up in your brother's love triangle."

He smirked, and almost laughed. "Quite right," he said gruffly, adjusting the cuff on his left sleeve, his eyes alighting on the long-forgotten tea and cake beside him.

She raised an eyebrow and nudged the cake a bit closer. "I also have a pretty little file on Lord Sanderson's involvement in the oil conflict in Kuwait. Care to take a look?"

He directed his smirk towards her. "You do know how to drive me to distraction, don't you?"

She smirked back at him and lifted her chin proudly.

After he finished his cake and refocused on the Kuwait file in his own office, Anthea looked pleasantly about her office for all of five minutes, and then smiled at the laptop in front of her.

_Finally_, she thought to herself, and proceeded to spend the next two hours reviewing footage of Sherlock and Molly's reunion.

_This was going to be good_.

* * *

**Whew! Sorry again! (But seriously, listen to the Lennon and Maisy version of "Ho Hey". I love it even more than the original.)  
**

**The next chapter will be a bit more fun. :) **

**To Arcoiris - Thank you! I'm glad you found the proposal natural. :) I was a bit worried. And yes, the original is a bit hard to find. I've been told I can get it through the DVD rental Netflix, but I only have the streaming version (we use it to watch stuff on TV through our Wii), so I've resigned myself to watching it online, because I don't want to buy it. (I'm extremely cheap.) :) AND - thank you for editing my grammar mistake. :)  
**

**To Aviatress - Thank you! I'm very glad you enjoyed it. I hope you enjoyed this one as well. :)**

**To Black Night - Thank you! Yes, I think if Sherlock ever was really, actually committed to something (like, say, a proposal), he could do something quite impressive! :) Thanks so much for your review. I'm glad you liked the Prince Hans reference! Haha!  
**

**To my anonymous Guests - Thank you for the reviews! And that's a great idea...I plan on having a confrontation between Tom and Sherlock somewhere in the next chapter or two. :)  
**

**Thanks again and please review, if you've got the time!**

**(Also...fair warning...school starts soon, and the first few weeks back are always crazy, so please be patient with me the next month as I attempt to have a life again.)**


	10. Well, It's Like This

**Okay, I feel like I need to apologize again for the upcoming sadness in (DUNH DUNH DUNH) the flashback in this chapter as well. We'll see some of Molly's (admittedly much much lesser) mistakes in this flashback, and then, hopefully the worst of the angst and sadness will be out of the way. There will still be some, of course, but the worst will be over, after this chapter. Maybe. Probably.  
**

**But the second part of this chapter was ridiculously fun to write! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do! :) Bring on the Attack on Tom! *insert gleefully angry eyebrows here ***

**Still don't own Sherlock, or The Parent Trap, or anything else. There is mention of the Red-Headed League case in this chapter as well.  
**

**And of course I still owe thanks and send lots of love to OpalSkyLoveDivine, whose conversations keep me on the right track!  
**

**Too-da-lee-a-dah! :)  
**

* * *

Chapter 10: Well, It's Like This

_ "And it's a real bad sign - I'm walkin' on a real thin line.  
_

_A fool in love with a fool who never cared."_

-Wynonna Judd; "Tell Me Why"

* * *

_Seduce Janine._

_Convince her to allow him into Magnusson's office._

_Once inside, find the files for Lady Smallwood, any files on himself and his…friends, and evidence that will put Magnusson away for life. Or at least, find evidence that will bring down his little publicity empire._

_That was the plan._

_Janine was not supposed to have her own plan._

_She was not supposed to be 'using' him to bring down her boss – Charles Augustus Magnusson - the man who forever ruined her chances at happiness by taunting and threatening her brother until he was admitted to an institution, and then holding a drunk driving charge over her own head and forcing her to work for him. "Just because he liked the way I squirmed," she said angrily, during their confrontation of the man._

_She was not supposed to have her own plan._

_And yet, here he is, with a manic, teary-eyed Janine standing before him, gun in hand, Magnusson dead in front of them. For one of the few times in his life, Sherlock Holmes is speechless. She turns the gun on him, now, and demands the files he's holding, and when he refuses – he needs them, to see just how far Magnusson's little secrets are spread – he needs them to protect Molly – she shakes her head once, and smiles a painful smile, and apologizes – "I'm sorry, Sherlock," and shoots him. He hears more than sees her heels click as she takes the folders from his hand._

_"It's a shame we're both such good liars, Sherl. We coulda been friends." Her voice is soft and hard and full of cloying pity. "I'll call an ambulance," she calls over her shoulder, as she leaves. "You might want to do something about that, in the meantime."_

_He thinks he is dying._

_He thinks of Molly, and nothing else._

_He decides, after his mind palace starts collapsing painfully around him, that he will not die today._

_Not when Molly could still be in danger. _

_He will not leave her alone._

_He will never leave her._

* * *

_Molly is at work when she receives the news. _

_With her pregnancy brain, she's forgotten her mobile phone at Baker Street, but that is usually not a problem, because anyone that ever needs to reach her knows the number for the phones in both the morgue and the lab._

_John comes in, and she can tell immediately that something is wrong. His hair is wild and there are tears in his eyes, and he looks like a wounded animal. He opens his mouth to speak, but chokes on the words, and presses his fist to his lips and blinks rapidly._

_There is only one person that could cause that sort of reaction in her stalwart, soldier friend. _

_The sterilized tools she was in the process of putting away clatter to the floor around her feet._

* * *

_When Sherlock Holmes makes his miraculous recovery, when the doctors and nurses have finally allowed Molly to visit, she sits by his bed and talks to him as he sleeps, tearfully happy that he is alive. That is all she cares about, at the moment._

_She knows, from where he was found – in Magnusson's office – that he continued with the case without consulting her or John. She knows they will have to have a serious talk when he is out of the danger zone, but for now – _

_-For now, she waits, and presses kisses to his pale hand and cheek._

_She waits, and kisses, and loves, and hurts, and scolds and encourages unceasingly._

_She thinks the worst is over when he briefly wakes the next morning._

_She is holding his hand, the one without all the IVs. She is half asleep, and feels his fingers twitch. _

_She quickly wakes, and watches his face. He slowly turns his palm so that his fingers are entwined with hers, and his eyelashes flutter. _

_His eyes do not fully open, but he mutters her name._

_"Molly."_

_"I'm here," she whispers. "I'm here."_

_His lips twitch, just a bit, and she thinks the worst is over._

_And then, an hour later, stretching her legs and getting a bite to eat - she sees the headlines._

* * *

_When Sherlock fully wakes, Molly is not there._

_John is, and Sherlock finds, to his dismay, that his morphine-muddled brain cannot read his expression. _

_He blinks and frowns and waits for his tight-lipped friend to say something._

_Instead, John takes his vitals, and looks at his chart. After confirming that Sherlock is stable, he sits down, and holds up a newspaper._

_"Saucy Secretary Seduces Sherlock Holmes – or Is It the Other Way Around?" reads the headline. There is a picture of Sherlock smirking at Janine Matthews, his face very close to hers as he leans over her shoulder._

_"Magnusson Murder the Result of a Love Triangle?" Screams another headline. _

_John silently goes through a pile of tabloids and newspapers, each headline worse than before. _

_"Well?" John says tersely, at the end of it._

_Sherlock frowns. "Well, what?" Certainly John knows just how far the newspapers can bend the truth. At least, he's fairly certain John knows, what with Kitty Riley, and all. _

_"What have you got to say for yourself?" John asks, and his voice is dangerous. "And I'd think long and hard about that, if I were you, Sherlock. What to say. Because Molly…you have some explaining to do, Sherlock. You've got some bloody good explaining to do. I'd say, right now, that you are actually lucky you were shot. Because otherwise, she'd kill you. And I can't say I'd stop her."_

_Sherlock snorts half-heartedly, but there is a sinking feeling in his chest and it's not because of a gunshot wound. "Molly couldn't kill a fly. She dissects dead things, John, she doesn't make them dead. And that's – not funny."_

_John glares. "I wasn't joking." And then, after a few moments of tense silence – "We are glad you're alive."_

* * *

_Sherlock does not get to explain, because the next time he wakes up, Molly is standing over him, and his heart drops at her expression._

_She has been crying. _

_She has been…sobbing. _

_Now her face is angry, but it is the pinch of her lips and the blank stare in her eyes that makes something inside of Sherlock crack._

_Her hands grip the bedrail, her large, round stomach a barrier between them. Her knuckles are white, and she focuses on the wall opposite them. _

_He says nothing for a long time. _

_"It was for a case-" he says, finally. "Nothing happened. And what little actually did – one kiss - one kiss, Molly - it meant nothing. **Nothing,"** he repeats, for emphasis. He never repeats himself.  
_

_She turns her blank stare on him, and says, with a quiet, deadly voice – "It meant something to me."_

_He blinks._

_She continues. "Never again, Sherlock Holmes. This will never – __**never**__ happen again."_

_He nods. "Okay," he agrees lamely. _

_He is ashamed at how relieved he is when she sits beside him, obviously not intending to leave the room for quite some time._

_When he tries to open his mouth, to discuss the case, to further explain – she cuts him off with a Look. _

_"I don't want to hear it," she says. "Just…I…no. There is no logical explanation, no good, scientific, reasonable reason for…for what you did. So I don't want to hear it. Not now. Possibly not ever."_

_Later, as she's reading, tears begin to fall. When he reaches for her hand, wincing because it is painful to move his body to reach it - she jerks her hand away._

_He finds that that hurts much worse than the recovering gunshot wound._

* * *

_It has been several weeks, and Sherlock is finally being discharged from the hospital. _

_He has agreed, per Molly's demand, not to take any cases until the girls are born. He cannot understand the depth of her fury and hurt – he knows – cheating, is __**bad**__ – but he did not cheat on Molly, not really. And it was all to protect her, so he is growing increasingly frustrated that he seems to have broken her trust beyond a simple fix, this time. But he agrees to her demand, because he really is afraid that he's pushed her too far, this time._

_The twins are due in three weeks._

_He lasts nine days._

_On the tenth day, Mycroft pays him a visit while Molly is visiting Mrs. Hudson downstairs. _

_Sherlock listens with a cool dread settling in his stomach and an even icier expression on his face as his brother explains that Magnusson had a connection in Greece – a Jackson Buttegieg. Magnusson owed Jackson information before his untimely death. Jackson wanted that information, and was none to pleased to find that said information apparently died with Magnusson. _

_He is now determined to get the information, or get revenge. _

_Mycroft levels an unemotional gaze at his brother. "Jackson knows, brother, the two people responsible for Magnusson's death. He also knows that Janine Matthews is currently in a maximum security prison, awaiting sentencing for the murder of Charles Magnusson. Her brother is safely locked away in an insane asylum. How long, do you think, before he knows about your 'pressure points'?"_

_Sherlock hates his brother in that moment. "I assume you've come with more than just death threats for my family, Mycroft. Spare me the drama and get to the point."_

_Mycroft stares at him for a moment before proceeding. "I can have my men and women take care of him. He is a crafty man, and I estimate it will take three weeks to bring him down with the resources at my disposal." He sounds almost apologetic._

_Sherlock knows where this is going. He sighs, and looks away, and something in his face hardens. "And if I go?" He asks quietly._

_"I estimate it will take less than a week."_

_There is silence between them. Sherlock breaks it. "I promised her."_

_Mycroft shakes his head, mild disgust on his face. "Please tell me you're not succumbing to a sentimental promise. Think about this logically, brother. If you wish to protect your pathologist, taking out a man who has the power to kill her is certainly more practical that keeping a promise made while you were legally high on morphine."_

_Sherlock sighs and levels a steely gaze at his brother, and Mycroft knows he has won. "When do I leave?"_

* * *

_Molly's mistake is in both listening, and not listening. _

_When she interrupts Sherlock packing for a case in Greece after a pleasant tea with Mrs. Hudson, it is the last hurt she can possibly bear. _

_"You're choosing...the case. The cases." she states quietly. For some reason, the straw that broke her back has numbed her, as well._

_He darts her a look, and he can tell from her body language that to kiss her good-bye would be to get pummeled with her small fists._

_"I am-" he begins, but she cuts him off._

_"If you choose this case, Sherlock, I will not be waiting for you when you return." She warns him quietly._

_There is a sudden look of desperate pain in his face, and she is horrified to find that she's pleased to see it there. It may serve him right, but she is not usually the vindictive type._

_But still, he presses his lips into a thin line, and tries again. "Molly, I-"_

_"No explanations, Sherlock. No more excuses. Me, or the case. Not all cases, Sherlock. I'm just asking for this one. And one and half more weeks. That's all. Please," she whispers._

_"I…can't. Molly, this case-" He seems apologetic, and as though he is struggling deeply with something._

_But his hesitance only serves to break her, more. "Sherlock, this case can't be more important than our family! Than the girls! You're going to be a father, Sherlock, and I'd like for the girls to know who that is! I can't…stand it! I can't stand-"_

_And her outburst pushes him over the edge of something. His face hardens painfully, and he glares at her, and his words are sneering and cold. "If you're going to criticize my values and hold 'family' over my head, Molly, you should just leave now."_

_He slams his small carry-on shut, and turns and leaves the room. He hesitates at the doorway. His face is angry at her refusal to listen, and he is panicking internally, right now. He turns, in a last ditch effort to say…something, to her – but their bedroom door is already shut and locked. _

_He can hear her crying._

_"Brother," Mycroft states coolly. "Your plane is ready." _

_The man always shows up at the most inopportune times._

_Sherlock turns his back on the bedroom again, and darts another glance at his brother. "Take…care of her," he says. _

_Mycroft blinks. "As you wish."_

_When Molly comes out of her room, red-faced and puffy-eyed and waddling miserably, she stops at the sight of Mycroft in her sitting room. Well…honestly…Sherlock's sitting room, now – **just** Sherlock's - she thinks bravely._

_Her mistake is in not hearing Sherlock out, and in listening to Mycroft._

_Because though he really is just trying to soothe her, in his way – his comments that 'all this sentiment really does impede his brother's thought processes' just solidifies her desire to leave. _

_They will be better off this way, she thinks. Happier. Sherlock will be free to be married to his work, again, and she will be free from…being his mistress, apparently. Because in her eyes, she has come second to his work for a long time, now.  
_

* * *

11 years later

London, England

The group arrived in England at 1 a.m., bedraggled (with the exception of Sherlock), and exhausted (also with the exception of Sherlock). They were all tired of watching Sherlock and Molly's (nearly non-existent but nevertheless awkwardly sweet and careful) interactions, tired of crowds, and tired of each other.

Mrs. Hudson, however, was as prepared as she ever was, though her enthusiastic greeting was interspersed with a few well-placed yawns.

Sherlock gave her a tight smile. "Dear woman, there was no need for you to wait up for us. We could have easily found our way to bed on our own."

"Tut, tut, Sherlock," she dismissed amiably. "I needed to see my girls and my boys! I missed you." She smiled warmly at the two half-asleep girls in the entrance way, and at John, who was helping Molly and Mary with their bags.

"We were only gone three days. Hardly long enough to miss us," Sherlock corrected.

Molly seemed to have awakened somewhat at the sound of the older woman's greetings. She smiled timidly at the woman and shuffled forward to greet her. "Mrs. Hudson," she said softly. "It's good to see you."

Mrs. Hudson gave her a once-over, looking between her and Sherlock. Sherlock inclined his head and his mouth turned up slightly at the corners. That was all the encouragement she needed.

She spread her arms wide and gave Molly a quick, life-squeezing embrace, before stepping briskly away and patting her on the cheek. "Good to see you too, Molly, dear," she said cheerfully, and then yawned again. "And you know you can call me Martha."

"Well, thank you, Mrs. - uh, Martha, for letting us stay in your spare room. The girls will stay with Sherlock, of course, and Tom-"

As Molly made to introduce him, the man lumbered in behind the others, frowning and blinking and struggling with his luggage. He'd overpacked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, intending to simply brush off his acquaintance (no man who stole any girl of Sherlock's was worth spit, as far as she was concerned), but did a double take as he stepped into the dim light and closed the door behind him. The small entrance hallway was quite crowded, now.

No one moved for a moment. They were taking in the incredulous expression on Mrs. Hudson's face.

Tom, however, was oblivious to her reaction, and gave her a quick smile. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson, is it? Pleased to meet you." He held out his hand, but the woman just stared at him, and then darted a glance to Sherlock before returning to staring at his hand.

Tom let it drop, frowning slightly. "Uh, right, then. Mrs. Hudson, thanks for letting us use your spare bedroom; where should I put-"

Mrs. Hudson seemed to reach a devious conclusion in the thirty seconds it took her to realize that Tom Parker was really a poor substitute – physically and otherwise - for Sherlock Holmes. _Whether she wanted to admit it or not – the girl had some unaddressed feelings for the boy, still_. And she was well aware of Sherlocks well-hidden but undying affection for the small woman before her. Well, she could help them with that. A little at a time.

"-Oh, no," Mrs. Hudson interrupted, shaking her head and giving Tom an apologetic smile. "Molly and – Mary, was it? Will be staying in my spare bedroom. You'll be staying with John. He has a lovely fold-away. Don't you, John?"

Everyone looked to John. His eyebrows knit together. "Um…well…I do have a fold-away, but-"

"Excellent!" Mrs. Hudson beamed, and then yawned again, which set off a chain reaction amongst the rest of the group – especially the girls.

"But-" Tom protested.

"No buts, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied – again, apologetically. "You'll excuse an old woman for not wanting a strange man asleep in her guest bedroom. Mary and Molly may stay with me, and you may stay with John. Be grateful you'll not have to stay with Sherlock, dear." She patted his cheek a little too firmly, and he flinched.

"Well, these poor dears are dead on their feet!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, taking in Lydia and Gigi's sleepy smiles. "To bed, all of you – all of you! Come on, Molly, Mary. Good night!"

The older woman pulled to two younger women in after her as soon as they said their own good-nights, and shut the door behind her.

Sherlock graced Tom with another ridiculously false grin. "I'll take care of the girls. John," he nodded to his friend, and herded his two daughters up the stairs.

John sighed, and raised an eyebrow at Tom. "Sorry, mate. It's really not that lovely of a fold-away."

Tom wrinkled his nose.

* * *

The group slept late, the next day. Molly had found herself too exhausted to ponder much on her feelings for Sherlock, and her body had quickly succumbed to the rather pleasant night noises that accompanied Baker Street. She really had missed London, and although the circumstances may not have been ideal – she really was looking forward to the sights and sounds of home, again. Because try as she might, she knew in her heart that London was home. Honestly, though she felt no small amount of trepidation about the whole visit – she was still looking forward to it, too. She fell asleep with a smile.

When Molly woke, she had already fallen somewhat unconsciously into old habits. London-Molly melded with California-Molly in a delightful mixture of strong and wary, open and appreciative and affectionate. She was determined to make the most of her time in London. She had Tom here. Surely his presence would dissuade any…further unpleasant recurring feelings, in regards to Sherlock. And really – Sherlock was being extraordinarily kind to her, and by extension, to Tom. She could appreciate Sherlock's efforts. It was in her nature to do so.

Sherlock sat up through the night, considering a plethora of facts and ideas – about Tom, about Molly, about Mary, about the girls, and about himself. By the time everyone else was up, he had once again reached the conclusion that Molly deserved his efforts to make her visit as pain-free as possible.

Mrs. Hudson had fixed everyone a simple breakfast, and the whole group met in Sherlock's sitting room to share it, exchanging mildly awkward pleasantries made decidedly less awkward and more pleasant by the twins' excited chatter and enthusiasm over visiting St. Bart's Hospital.

"Hullo, then – what's this?!" A pleasant voice interrupted the chatter of the room as Greg Lestrade entered. He'd been shocked, to say the least, when he'd found out the two twin girls had switched places on their parents, and he'd been thrilled to get to know Lydia (she'd accompanied her father to one crime scene, and had made even Donovan smile). _Leave it to a child of Sherlock's_, he'd thought. But he was really very happy to hear that the both of them – along with Molly – were coming back to London for a short visit. He was more than happy to oblige when Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – had actually _requested_ that Molly be allowed back at St. Bart's for a day or so. _That woman really knew how to get him to act like a decent human being._

"Greg!" The girls cried, abandoning Mrs. Hudson and her gossip, and ran to meet him. Mrs. Hudson watched, smiling and unoffended.

"Did you get the pass for us?!" Lydia asked excitedly, eyes obviously searching his person to see where they might be.

"See there, _they_ can manage to remember my name," he said, giving Sherlock a grin.

He gave both girls an affectionate squeeze on the arm, and his eyes found the soft brown eyes of Molly Hooper. "And there's another old friend who always remembers my name," he said softly, smiling gently at her.

He also took in the tight smile of the man he assumed was Tom Parker, Molly's fiancée. He blinked – _uncanny resemblance – _and then shook his head quickly and refocused on Molly Hooper. He always was fairly skilled at making everyone in the room feel comfortable. That's one of the reasons he was such a well-respected D.I.

Molly returned his smile and walked over to give him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "It's good to see you, Greg. How are you?"

He nodded. "Well. Very well. Can't complain. Got this tosser over here solving all my cases in ten seconds and leaving me to hunt down evidence for a conviction, as always," he gestured affectionately to Sherlock. "Wife and I are still together. How are you, Molly?"

"Um…same," she said. "I mean – well. Just finished a conference lecture on my research on-"

"-Protein agents and their effects on mitosis!" Lydia interrupted. "Do you have the passes? When can we go? Can we go today?" She bounced on her feet, beaming.

Gigi elbowed her sister playfully. "_Please_?" She added for her sister, and smiled hopefully at the officer.

Greg laughed. "Sorry, girls – one day pass, only, for tomorrow. If you want more than that, you'll have to seek permission elsewhere, I'm afraid. I had to promise Mike a round at the pub, for this. Not that I mind," he said amiably, winking.

He held out the day pass to the girls – it was really a temporary ID card – and they took it and placed it carefully on the bookshelf and began to chatter excitedly with John and Mary about what they planned on doing the next day. The two gave each other knowing glances over the girls' heads, already quite content to communicate silently with each other.

Sherlock stood by the fireplace, watching them with a neutral expression – save for the tiny smile on his lips. He appeared to be focused on the girls, but his ears were keenly tuned in to the conversation currently going on between Molly and the good Detective Inspector. It warmed something inside of him to hear Molly so…pleasant and happy with her old friend.

After a few moments, Tom moved to refill Molly's coffee cup and offer a cup to Greg. As he was filling the cups, Greg leaned in just a bit to Molly. "So, uh…" he said, rubbing the back of his neck for a moment. "Is it…serious?" He jerked his head toward the kitchen, but Tom was now standing right behind him.

Molly offered him a slightly too-bright smile. "Of course. I've...moved on." Her eyes moved meaningfully over Greg's shoulder to Tom, who was frowning again.

Greg started just a bit, but recovered gracefully. "Right – thanks, Tom." He took the coffee. "Nice to meet you. Lovely…girl…you've got. Molly's a real winner." He smiled at her again, and Molly blushed.

Tom gave the man one of his signature grins. "I know," he said, and put his arm around Molly's shoulders. "I'm hoping, since we won't be touring the facilities until tomorrow, that the two of us could perhaps have a little romantic date this afternoon? Maybe see Big Ben, or the famous London Bridge?" He said it too loudly to have been meant just for Molly, but not quite loud enough to be considered an announcement. He gave her a winning smile, and she blinked and replied with a shy blush and slightly grimace-y smile of her own.

"Um, well - that would be lovely, Tom, but-"

But Sherlock's friends – and daughters - were having none of that – they all saw the nearly imperceptible twitch of his lips at Tom's invitation.

Mrs. Hudson leaned forward casually on the couch and called to Tom – "What's that you said, Tom? You'll have to excuse an old woman's poor hearing. Did you say Big Ben? You do know, dear, that she's seen all those before, in more ways than one." Her eyes sparkled. "Remember when Sherlock had a bolt hole behind the clock face, before his brother made him relocate? I think he took you there once, Molly, dear."

Tom's smile faltered a bit. Molly's eyes darted between Sherlock and Tom. "Well, yes," she said, and her lips twitched in an effort to hold back a smile. She patted Tom reassuringly on the arm. "But I would love-"

Noting Molly's amusement and not-altogether-negative reaction, Greg decided to join in on some good-natured Sherlock-reminiscing as well. "And London Bridge – John, do you remember when he made that dramatic swan dive to rescue that kidnapping victim? Classic Sherlock!"

John laughed at that, and at Mary's expression, began to regale her with the tale.

"Actually," Sherlock mumbled, "I believe that 'swan dive' was more to get an answer as to why he was kidnapped in the first place than to _rescue_ him." His voice was gruff, but he was clearly pleased by his friends' affections. He always did love a good brag on him.

And then began a good ten minutes of John and Gigi and Mrs. Hudson and Greg all sharing anecdotes on the wild and crazy and loveable antics of one Sherlock Holmes, with the detective in question cutting in to correct their exaggerations every now and then, attempting and failing to conceal the pleased look on his face.

The pleased look fell away after a moment, when he noticed Molly's timid, strained smile in his direction, and the fact that she was now blinking twice as often as normal. _Oh_. He swallowed, and his mind raced for a change of subject, but a jealous Tom beat him to it.

"Well, he sounds like quite an adventurer, doesn't he?" He whispered, obviously trying to draw her attention away from the detective's escapades.

Sherlock couldn't decide if it was out of thoughtfulness for Molly's feelings or out of Tom's own jealousy that the man attempted to redirect her focus.

Tom was rubbing small circles on Molly's back, and she nodded hesitantly at his words, still smiling her hesitant, affectionate smile.

"Remember when we had that little adventure of our own at the Boyes Hot Springs ? And the night with the orchestra? I made sure they played your favorite song-"

Lydia had obviously been listening in on their conversation as well, and she smiled fiercely at Tom as she interrupted loudly enough to stop everyone else's conversations. "It's bad form to brag about _yourself_, Tom. Besides – you may have _taken_ her to hear pretty music, but Dad _wrote_ pretty music for her. Gigi hummed it for me at camp." Her eyes were defiant and smug.

Tom, heated and angry with embarrassment, snapped at her. "It's _bad form_ to disrespect your future father!"

The room was certainly quiet now.

Molly's eyes were wide, and she looked at Tom, as though seeing this side of him for the first time.

"Step-father," Sherlock corrected tersely, his eyes narrowing.

Molly's wide eyes turned suddenly on Sherlock.

He remembered that he was to _play nice_, though he didn't want to, at the moment – but he swallowed his further comments and pressed his lips into a thin line, glaring suspiciously at Tom.

Sherlock felt a tiny thrill of pride at the grateful relief on her face.

Tom, red with anger, opened his mouth to make an angry retort, but Molly placed a hand on his arm and gave a slight shake of her head.

Tom looked down at her hand on his arm, and then looked at her pleading face, and his angry expression relaxed into something slightly less angry, and slightly hurt.

Mary's eyebrows nearly reached her hairline at the exchange. She sat back, her mouth tugging upwards in one corner.

Greg cleared his throat. "Well!" He said brightly. "Delivering the pass wasn't the only reason I stopped by. While you were gone, I had a case – bit of a tricky one."

Sherlock snorted, and Greg ignored him. "I know it wouldn't rate higher than a four on that crazy scale of yours, Sherlock, and it's a bit ridiculous – not really sure it's even a case - but I thought you could take a look-" he fished out his mobile.

"Why don't we let Tom have a look?" An innocent, Gigi-voice interrupted. The adults turned, surprise etched on their faces. Lydia was usually the…manipulative one.

Lydia raised her eyebrow encouragingly and give her sister a subtle thumbs-up.

"What?" Gigi asked innocently, smiling a pleased little smile. "He told me how brilliant he was – PhD in Bio-medicine, and all that. I'm interested to hear his thoughts on the case. I mean, I don't expect him to solve it, but surely he has some ideas."

Tom raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "I'm certain I do. I mean, I would. I will." He turned and looked at Greg expectantly.

Greg hesitated. "These pictures are of a crime scene," he said. "Confidential, and all that. But I'll…I'll let you have a look."

"I'm sure I can handle it," Tom replied confidently.

Greg handed him the mobile, and spoke as Tom flipped through the photos. "Bloke by the name of Arthur Crosswire runs a floral shop on Chestnut. Says he saw a post in the paper about an employer seeking red-headed men; they'd be paid a lofty sum for simple work, but their hair needed to be naturally red. Same post ran for three weeks before he decided to try it out. Went, they hired him, said he closed up shop around 6 every evening and went to work for them – the "Red-Headed League" – for a few hours at a little place across town for about two weeks. Said they only had him transfer documents from a desktop computer to a flash drive. They were nothing special – recipes, old news articles, the like. Nothing important. He went back a few days ago, and the place was completely empty. No desks, no company – nothing. Asked around; no one even knew about the Red Headed League. Shop owners next door said the place had been abandoned for years."

Tom frowned as he flipped through the photos. "So what's the crime?" He asked, concentrating.

"That's the thing – aside from that "Red-Headed League" breaking and entering and possibly falsifying some business documents – I can't figure that there is one," Greg said.

"Hmm," Tom said, studying the photos intensely for a few minutes. He looked up at Molly, who gave him a strained, encouraging smile. "Maybe – and this is just a theory – maybe Arthur Crosswire is the one who did the breaking and entering? Was anything missing from the abandoned building? Metal wire, copper plumbing? Scrapping can make a lot of money in the States. Maybe he stole something from inside the building, was worried someone saw him, and made up the story about the Red-Headed League to avoid suspicion?" He grinned proudly as he looked up from his mobile.

Greg pursed his lips, thinking. "Not bad," he admitted. "I don't think we thought of the scrapping theory. I'll have-"

"Wrong," Sherlock interrupted. He was busy on his own mobile, and flashed a grin at Tom before finishing up. He might have been determined to protect Molly's feelings, but that didn't mean he was going to allow a case as simple (but admittedly clever in its simplicity) as the one before him to be blown asunder by a look-alike with a baboon's grin.

"How would you know?" Tom asked irritably. "You haven't even seen the photos-"

"Don't need to," Sherlock replied breezily. "The only florist on Chestnut is 'Artful Arrangements', and look at what it shares a wall with." He held out his own mobile to Google Earth's street view of Chesnut.

There beside Arthur's flower shop was a Morrison's Jewelers.

Tom frowned. "What does-"

Sherlock sighed. "I checked the newspapers in question online. There were indeed advertisements for red-headed men for a 'Red-Headed League' for three weeks. If Arthur Crosswire was indeed guilty, as you say, he'd have been the one to post said advertisements. He'd surely have been remembered, because of his unique hair color. So much for the idea that this was all a brilliant ruse to gain a bit of copper. So no, Arthur Crosswire is not the guilty party, in this instance. Immediately after he was hired, the advertisements stopped. Why would they stop after Arthur was hired? That leads me to believe, along with the meaningless, mundane work that he was asked to do and the secretive location of the League, that Arthur was the target all along. Since he was obviously never harmed, the aim was not to hurt him, but to keep him in a known location for a specific amount of time every evening. Where would he be if he were not working for the League?"

"At his flower shop!" Lydia said after a moment of silence. Both girls were watching him with proud wonder displayed on their faces.

Sherlock flashed them a grin. "Excellent. Yes, at his flower shop. I conclude that he was lured away from his flower shop so that _someone_ could gain access to the jeweler's next store, either by weakening the wall shared between the two stores, or by burrowing beneath it. Check reports for any robbery of Morrison's Jewelers. If none has occurred, I'd post a man there until one does occur. If it hasn't been robbed yet, it certainly will be in the next day or so. I'd also check the adjoining floors and walls in 'Artful Arrangements' to see if the building's structural integrity has been compromised."

Greg looked at him for a moment, and then broke into a grin. "Right. I'll send someone to check it out. Brilliant, as always."

Tom frowned, defeated. "Of course. Brilliant adventurous detective. Is there anything you _can't_ do?" He grumbled.

Molly patted him reassuringly on the arm. "He can't cook," she said helpfully.

Sherlock bit back a smile. "That, unfortunately, is very true," he admitted. "One of my few shortcomings."

Both John and Greg snorted at that, and the room shared a brief moment of laughter.

Appeased, Tom smiled proudly. "Well, that is one thing I _can_ do well," he said. "At least I can make us all a meal. It is about time for lunch, isn't it?"

He strode to the fridge and opened it, perusing the contents with a confident look on his face.

That look was quickly dispelled as he saw the contents of the left-hand side of the middle bottom shelf.

He paled, and quickly shut the door.

Blinking, Tom collected himself, took a deep breath, and opened it again.

He shut it immediately, turned around, and made a beeline for the bathroom. The adults watched him with mild concern on their faces.

Gigi and Lydia stared at each other with wide eyes as the sound of retching was heard from behind the closed door.

Lydia pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile. "Oops," she said innocently. "Did we forget to dispose of that extra kidney, Dad?"

"Poor Tom," added Gigi. "I guess he doesn't quite have the stomach for close encounters of human remains. Not that I blame him entirely. I'm a bit sad that you forgot to save my orange juice from kidney contamination, Uncle John."

And the two of them burst into giggles.

"Girls-" Molly scolded, but she couldn't make out any more than that, as she pressed her hand over her mouth in an effort not to smile. She'd always been slightly amused at others' lack of tolerance for something that was so easy for her to handle, and apparently Tom was no exception. And it was unfortunate – but she should have remembered to warn him about Sherlock's fridge. She quickly went to the bathroom to offer her sympathies to Tom.

Sherlock couldn't stop a smile of amusement from spreading over his own face.

No one in the room missed it.

* * *

Later that evening, Lydia and Gigi talked late into the night about their plans for St. Bart's the next day.

They kept dissolving into giggles when they thought of Tom's reaction to the kidney in the fridge.

"How'd he even get a PhD in Bio-medicine if he can't stand the sight of human bits?" Lydia asked scornfully, which prompted another fit of giggles.

Gigi snorted. "Mum says he works mainly with technology and the little samples, on slides and such. He avoids working with the bigger pieces. Sensitive stomach, and all."

"Mmm," Lydia sighed.

After a moment, Lydia giggled again. "Gigi – I have another brilliant idea."

"Does it involve inviting Tom to Bart's so we can make the most of every opportunity to gross him out?" Gigi asked hopefully.

Lydia laughed out loud. "Genevieve Holmes! I'm a terrible influence on you! That's an awful idea!"

Gigi giggled. "I know," she said. "I know…"

"…It's a brilliantly, marvelously, awful idea," Lydia said. "Great minds think alike."

And the two girls commenced planning a day of horror for their least favorite man on the planet. For the time being, Operation Get Mum and Dad Back Together took a backseat to Operation Get Tom Out of the Picture.

* * *

Anthea stretched, powering down her smart device and preparing to return home for the evening. She collected her things and strode down the empty hallway, the click of her heels muffled by the plush carpet she was walking on.

She paused for a moment outside the door to Mycroft's office.

Was that…_chuckling_?

Was Mycroft Holmes _chuckling_?

The sound was both chilling and oddly endearing.

She paused at the door.

The laughter faded immediately.

"Eavesdropping does not become you," an irritated voice chastised her from behind the doorway.

Shaking her head, she pushed it open, and stood with a hand on her hip. "It's only unbecoming when I'm not doing it for you," she retorted. "What's so funny?" She asked curiously.

His look of irritation was replaced for one second with a proud grin, before his face settled into his typical stern expression. "My nieces," he said seriously, "are inordinately brilliant."

* * *

**Ah, so there it is! :) Getting back into the fun of it. I was inspired by my wonderful family. I myself have a very sensitive stomach/weak constitution when it comes to body fluids, and my sisters love making me gag. Mean, but...I have to admit - also very funny. **

**This chapter was a bit shorter but I felt like I needed a transition before the Big Bart Fiasco. **

**Black Night - Thanks for the review! And yes, NOT GOOD indeed! :)**

**Arcoiris - Thanks for the grammar fix last chapter. And - thank you for the recommendation! I'm definitely going to read Vikings, now. I thought the movie was hilarious so I'm looking forward to reading the Sherlolly version. :)**

**Have a great day!  
**


	11. Crazy Beautiful

**Wow! Thanks for the reviews! Love them. I'm working on responding now. :)  
**

***EDIT 8/22 - Bella Cuore pointed out an inconsistency in Tom's dramatic little speech later in this chapter. I've tweaked a few words, and I think it flows better now. Thanks Bella! :)**

**Also - I've had these last chapters planned out for a while, so they're going faster than I thought they would. (Isn't that funny how writing works sometimes? I've known how I wanted everything to end for a while now. Just to clarify - this is the beginning of the end. 2 more chapters left, after this one!)  
**

**Plus, apparently, forcing myself to be on a school schedule again means that my brain is functioning on some higher level, now. Writing goes faster. At least for now. Haha!  
**

**Information on St. Bart's history (admittedly, I mention only a pathetically small amount of that hospital's amazing long history in this chapter) was found on Google and Wikipedia. Because I'm lazy. And there was too much else to write. Sorry.**

**I do not own Sherlock, the Parent Trap, or any songs mentioned in this chapter. Gigi and Lydia have a bit of fun with their iPod playlist at Baker Street, later. **

******Thanks to OpalSkyLoveDivine for suggesting a few of the songs on said playlist. :)  
**

**Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 11: Crazy Beautiful

_"You may be right – I may be crazy._

_But it just may be a lunatic you're looking for."_

-Billy Joel, "You May Be Right"

* * *

_Mycroft expects an angry confrontation from his brother, upon his return. There is a sixty-three percent chance Sherlock will blame him for everything, after all._

_It does not come._

_Molly has been living with her friend Meena for two weeks, she has had the twins, and when they are all discharged and deemed fit for travel, she plans on relocating to California. Mycroft has ensured she has a job, there, and protection, and is both quietly proud and dismayed at his efforts to 'take care' of his brother's pathologist. He's certainly never taken such care to make sure protection and job are so well-suited to his charge, before._

_The angry confrontation from his brother never comes._

_Instead, he gets a cool confrontation from none other than his personal assistant Anthea._

_He can tell she is angry with him, because as she is working, she fails to call him 'sir'. Not that he cares – he never asked her to in the first place – but he finds her cool, professional anger grating._

_"If you have something to say, by all means, don't hold back on account of my feelings," he sneers impatiently._

_Anthea has never cowered away from his icy demeanor, and she does not start today._

_"Sherlock needs one of the girls," she announces. "And I'm going to help him keep one."_

_This is not what Mycroft expected. He raises an eyebrow, as if to say 'are you crazy, woman?' "And did he request this of you personally?" His tone is sarcastic._

_She gives him an equally sarcastic smile. "A little birdie told me," she says, and her smile falls away as she places her iPad before him. Playing is a saved file from the hospital. Sherlock is alone with the babies, and he is watching them with an expression one can only describe as complete and total awe, and love. And misery. _

_He gently touches one girl's tiny fingers, then her tiny nose, and brushes his fingers along the soft, downy hair on her head. He turns to the next girl, and carefully, hesitantly picks her up. She wriggles in his grasp before snuggling against him, and he blinks rapidly. He holds her for a moment, and then kisses her forehead, his lips lingering on her pink newborn skin. _

_He places her back in her hospital bassinet, and turns so that his back is to the girls, and the camera. _

_He is furiously rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands._

_The clip ends._

_Mycroft blinks unemotionally for a moment, then regains his composure and stares at Anthea. "Is this an attempt to 'tug on my heart strings'?" He asks, just as sarcastic as earlier._

_But she can tell he his covering up a baser emotion. Guilt, perhaps? Or sorrow._

_Anthea blinks back at him, her face a façade of cool indifference. "No. Merely a presentation of the fact that your brother loves his daughters, and that he is already deeply emotionally attached to them. If Molly leaves with both of the girls, __**every**__ night will be a danger night for him, Mycroft."_

_He blinks. She has never called him by his given name before. _

_She continues. "Molly is a kind and sensible woman. I am going to show her this clip, and convince her to allow one of the girls to stay here. You can help, or not." She shrugs. "But if you try to stop me, I will quit." _

_Mycroft narrows his gaze at her. "Threats, now? You really-"_

_"I'm not threatening," she says coolly. "I'm just doing you the courtesy of letting you in on my plan."_

_Mycroft studies her for a moment, then nods. "I suppose I'll have to have a talk with John Watson," he sighs after a moment. "My brother may…love his daughters, but he certainly is no expert in child-raising."_

_She flashes him a tight smile. "I think that would be wise."_

_Later, after 'having a talk' with John, Mycroft pays a visit to his brother, who already looks like the living dead. When he asks Sherlock in a round-about way what he would do if he were allowed to keep one of his daughters, Sherlock sits forward in his chair, and his expression is fierce. "Love her," he says hotly, and dares his brother to mock him for this. "And protect her."_

_Mycroft does not mock him. He sends the clip of their encounter to Anthea._

_It takes Anthea a full day, but a tearful Molly decides to allow Sherlock to keep Genevieve. It's the video clips that do it. And Anthea's assurances and plan for ensuring Genevieve's safety and well-being. And the simple text from Mycroft._

_Please. –MH_

* * *

_Molly misses Sherlock immediately, of course. And Genevieve. She misses them the moment she leaves them, and she misses them on the plane with Lydia, and she misses them as she unpacks her last box at her new home in California. She feels a little like her heart is stretching out from London, and she fears that if she does not do her best to forget the city and what she left behind there, her heart will snap and she'll going flying back._

_However, the business of life and the joys and frustrations of motherhood, along with befriending and 'turning' the agent Mycroft has assigned for her protection – Mary – has made it possible, if not easy, to repress said feeling, and it also makes it easy to convince herself that all is well and that she made the right decision – the best and only decision she could have made. _

_Surely, if Sherlock was interested in…pursuing her, he would have done so already._

_It isn't until Lydia is a sassy six years old that Molly is pushed back into the reality that it may have been a mistake – that leaving Sherlock Holmes may be something that she regrets. Immensely._

_She has felt, for the past few months especially, that there is something missing. She is determined not to admit that she knows what it is._

_She is unpacking the groceries they've just bought, and Lydia is clumsily, independently, stubbornly helping to put them away. Molly sees more and more of Sherlock in her every single day, and it's pressing hard on her heart, now._

_"Eeeewwww," Lydia exclaims, staring – but quite interested – at the container of left-over split pea soup Mary had made, in the fridge. She pokes it once, and brings her face close to the container. "It looks like boogers, mum."_

_And Molly smiles, and she remembers a joke she overheard in the children's ward the other day, so she asks Lydia – "Hmm. It does. Lydia - how do you make a tissue dance?"_

_Lydia turns and raises an eyebrow at her mother._

_Molly waits a beat, and then gives her the answer, smiling hugely at the end of it: "You put a little boogie in it! Get it? A boogie?" And she laughs a little, and even Lydia grins as she's rolling her eyes._

_But she can't resist being sassy, so, still grinning, Lydia snorts good-naturedly and adds –"Don't make jokes, mum."_

_And Molly freezes, her hand full of store-bought crackers half-way to the shelf, and her face falls – because the inflection and tone of Lydia Hooper's voice sounds an awful lot like that of her father. And she can imagine how he would react if he were here. It is suddenly hard to breathe. _

_She's still staring at the package of crackers ten minutes later, because Lydia has put nearly everything else away that she could reach on her own, and made a mess of the potatoes in the process – a mess that she did not, and will not, clean up herself. _

_And she's frowning at her mother, who is staring forlornly at the crackers, and she tugs on her shirt. "Mum! What's wrong? I'm sorry, but - the joke wasn't that funny."_

_And Molly raises her eyebrows at her daughter, and Lydia quickly adds, "but you can still make them, if you want too."_

_And Molly smiles sadly at her, and tells it's fine and for her to go play, and takes a deep breath, because she can't regret her decision, now. It's in the past. Surely Sherlock is happier now, with no partner to answer to. If he hasn't contacted her in six years, he probably never will. It's better this way, for both of them. _

_But later that evening, as she lies in bed, staring at the clock on her nightstand – she can't keep the tears from falling out, one by one, carving warm paths down her face and making little patterns on her sheets, and wishing desperately that he misses her as much as she misses him._

* * *

Present Day

London, England

"It's not that I don't want to come," Tom said, frustrated, as the engaged couple took a walk to get some coffee, alone, before the big excursion to St. Bart's. "I just think they're up to something, Molly. You can't let those girls-"

She frowned at him. "_Those girls_ are my daughters, Tom. And they will be your step-daughters as well. And they're _ten_ – they're _always _up to something! It was nice of them to invite you to come along. Be the adult, here." She blinked for a moment, and shook her head, as though surprised at those last four words.

"Well I'm not the only adult here who has a problem acting like one," Tom muttered.

Molly stopped walking and pulled her hand out of his, giving him a Look.

He realized his mistake. "Not – oh, Molly – sorry – not _you_. I meant – Sherlock. Sherlock. He's…something else, sometimes."

He realized he wasn't helping matters, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Molly," he apologized. "I'm sorry I let myself get carried away. I won't criticize your…um…I won't criticize Sherlock, or second-guess your daughters - our - my future - step-daughters - any more. I'm sorry." He kissed her forehead, and she smiled, appeased.

* * *

Sherlock, Molly, John, Mary, Gigi, Lydia, and Tom arrived at St. Bart's at nine a.m. on the dot.

It does take a village, sometimes.

The girls looked around the hospital, smiling widely.

"So…" Molly said, clasping her hands nervously. "Where to begin?"

"The lab?" Gigi asked hopefully.

"The morgue?" Lydia asked at the same time.

The looked at each other for a moment, and switched tactics.

"The morgue," Gigi decided cheerfully, as Lydia announced "The lab."

Molly laughed, and then took in Tom's slightly greenish look. "Let's start a bit smaller, girls – how about we start at the top and work our way down?" She asked kindly.

"Okay!" The agreed enthusiastically.

"Do you mean the top as in the very top of the hospital? The roof top? Where Dad had a show-down with the most evil man known to England? Possibly the world?" Lydia asked gleefully.

Molly blinked, startled. "Um…I wasn't…actually…I didn't…I didn't mean…"

"Not appropriate, girls," John chided.

Gigi frowned. "But it was a _fake_ suicide, Uncle John. We wouldn't be excited to see it at all if he'd _actually_ died," she said obviously. "It's the site where he defeated a criminal mastermind! He's like…Doctor Who! Or Iron Man! He's like…a hero!"

Sherlock frowned. "Not a hero, Genevieve. And I'm certainly not either of _those..._people. Although I don't see the harm in letting you see -"

Molly and John shot him a Look. "-unless of course your mother and uncle disagree. Rooftop – not good." He amended quickly, eyeing the ceiling innocently.

Tom stared between the two of them. "Am I getting this right? He _faked his death_ on the roof of St. Bart's?"

"Technically," Lydia interrupted, before any other adults could reply, "he faked his death on the sidewalk in _front_ of St. Bart's. He jumped," she explained cheerfully. "And went _splat_ all over the sidewalk! Except it obviously wasn't him. I mean, it was _him_, but he wasn't dead. And it wasn't his blood and guts, it was-"

"That's quite enough," Sherlock said quickly, clapping his overly enthusiastic daughter on the shoulder. "No need to reveal those particular details to the world." He gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Seeing Molly's shocked look, John explained, apologetically – "Mrs. Hudson's got a scrapbook."

"Oh," she nodded weakly. She couldn't think of anything else to say.

Tom, gave the group a look that meant something along the lines of 'you're all completely loony'. "Right," he said weakly. "Of course." And then, to the girls – "You know, you have…the most…morbid – er," he said, noting the warning gazes imparted him by the other four adults in the hospital entrance – "a _delightfully_ morbid sense of…um…something." He finished lamely.

The girls grinned at him. "Thank you, Tom," they chorused innocently.

* * *

They began at the top, but not the roof-top (Molly and John put the kibosh on that idea immediately). The top floor contained offices, and Molly introduced them to one of her old colleagues, Mike Stamford, who gave them a bit of history of the hospital, for the girls' benefit.

"Now, girls," he began amiably, leading them through the upper hallways, looking out windows to the buildings below, illustrating his lecture with visual aids. "St. Bart's is the oldest hospital in Europe. It was founded in 1123, and was nearly lost after the Dissolution of the Monasteries – an angry King Henry VIII disbanded all the religious institutions that helped run the hospital. So there was no income to keep it going. But Henry VIII re-founded the hospital in 1546, and assured its protection and place in history by providing it with property and a steady income." He continued to cheerfully point out the architecture, and the various buildings, and their role in the medical history of England.

The girls listened patiently, and grinned when he began telling him of the history of surgery and medicine, and how for a long time, surgical trauma and infection post-surgery were the leading causes of death, along with tuberculosis.

The girls had great fun asking macabre questions at the expense of Tom's stomach until Molly politely thanked Mike for his time, and announced that they had taken up quite enough of it. Besides, it was nearly lunchtime.

He shook the girls' hands along with everyone else's in farewell, and returned to his office.

"Well…that was lovely!" Molly said brightly. "Who's up for some lunch in the canteen?"

* * *

Lydia and Gigi excused themselves from the group on the way down to the canteen – "Emergency Bathroom Break," Lydia explained. "We'll meet you down there."

Of course, they did not plan on using the bathroom at all.

Instead, Gigi led them to the lab she knew would be empty, that day – the lab that was on Mum's tour. She and Lydia quickly flitted about, attempting to put together a surprise experiment for their parents to work on.

They had spoken with Mike Stamford briefly (and secretly) the night before and asked if they (meaning their parents, of course) might be able to do an experiment in the lab for old time's sake. He'd agreed, and said he'd provide them with a spare something to work on. The girls had hoped there would be something truly disgusting to experiment on – toes, or intestines, or something of that nature – but the only thing available in that lab's specimen fridge were eyeballs.

They shrugged.

"Maybe there's something in another room," Lydia said.

"We can't steal body parts from another room!" Gigi protested.

"Well, we've got to find _something_," Lydia whispered back, and opened up the door with a flourish and a grin. "Some fingers, or an arm, or-"

She walked straight into the stomach of a well-dressed man with dark, thinning hair, a waspish smile, and an umbrella.

Lydia took a step back, and looked up into the face of her Uncle Mycroft. "Uh-oh."

His smile widened, and it had the effect of making him look a bit like the Grinch. A waxy, cold, clean-shaven Grinch.

"'Uh-oh' is right," he said. "Please tell me you were not intending to steal body parts from a hospital, Lydia? Really, I'd rather not have to go through the trouble of arranging a pardon or fishing you out of a juvenile detention facility."

She blinked, and then fixed him with her toothiest grin. "Of…course not! Uncle…Mycroft?"

His smile now was tight, albeit genuine. "Pleased to meet you, Lydia Margaret Hooper."

She took another step back, studying him carefully. By now, Gigi was at her side. "Um…hello, Uncle Mycroft. How are you?"

He poked her stiffly, but gently, with the crook of his umbrella. "I'd be better if I knew my nieces were not about to commit Grand Theft Ulna."

The girls looked at each other hesitantly.

"No need to come up with excuses, dear nieces," he drawled kindly. As kindly as possible, for Mycroft, anyway. "I know what you've been up to."

Gigi blushed and bit her lip. Lydia straightened a bit and looked him in the eye.

"Sorry, but-" Gigi began apologetically.

"You're not going to stop us," Lydia finished quickly, and anything but apologetically.

Mycroft's mouth twitched a bit, and there was amusement in his eyes. "It's a good thing I do not intend to, then. I would hate to face the wrath of the Hooper-Holmes women."

Lydia frowned, and raised her left eyebrow a hair – as if to ask Gigi – _is he making fun of us_?

But Gigi was smiling widely. "You're not going to stop us?" She asked excitedly. _Because if he wasn't intending to stop them – she knew what an ally he could be. She knew what her uncle was capable of. At least – she certainly had her suspicions. She was a watcher, after all._

"My dear girls," he said seriously. "I've been helping you all along."

The girls looked at each other in surprise, before recovering.

"You've-" Lydia began, frowning.

Gigi clapped her hands together. "Oh, let me guess!" She cried, ignoring her uncle's grimace at the use of the word 'guess'. "The…the fact that…Lydia said they all got the last three seats on the plane to Sacramento? Because of a 'last minute' cancellation? Or…I mean…and…Mum's lecture was rescheduled? At the last minute? And it just so happened that it was at a time when Dad could see it? I _thought_ that that was just a little _too _lucky! Did you do that?" She grinned at her uncle, eyes bright and laughing.

Lydia looked between them, incredulous. "What?!" She cried. "There's no way-"

Mycroft smirked at her, but it was the warmest smirk he'd ever given anyone. "Your sister is correct. Among other things. I have been monitoring the situation quite closely. Since camp, in fact."

"You knew all along?" Lydia asked, lips parted and brow furrowed.

"Oh, he's done worse. Or better?" Gigi said, as though trying to decide which phrase better suited her uncle's involvement. "You should have seen what he did for my sixth birthday. Dad was _livid_. But if he's known all along, and he's been helping – or, at least – not stopping us - "

"-until now," Lydia pointed out.

"Well, we _were_ going to hunt down an arm or a leg or…something. We may…have gotten a bit carried away."

Lydia pouted. "But I wanted to make Tom barf again."

Mycroft smiled, and it was pure evil genius. "I've already arranged for that," he said quietly. "But it will require some…participation, on your part."

The girls looked at each other, and grinned.

A few minutes later, Mycroft had given them their instructions, assured them the lab would be set up properly, that the eyeballs currently available in the lab would be ready, and that all they had to do was make sure that Tom received the last one on the bottom right of the array – a peculiar orb with a greenish-blue iris.

Mycroft finished up, checked the time on his mobile, and ushered them out of the lab door with his umbrella.

"You've been gone for approximately twelve minutes. You'd both better go before your little _village_ suspects that something is amiss."

Gigi gave him a quick hug and a 'thank-you', which made his mouth twitch again.

As Lydia walked away, she turned to walk backwards for a few steps, and gave her uncle a mock salute. "I'm going to have to talk to _you_ more often, Uncle Mycroft," she called cheekily, before turning back around to join her sister in a mad dash to the canteen.

He inclined his head for a moment, a smile threatening to burst forth – and then, just as quickly - it was subdued, and he turned to leave Bart's before his brother could spot him.

The girls made it in two minutes – and though their father narrowed his eyes at them suspiciously – they played it off between the two of them with surprising ease.

* * *

Unfortunately, a familiar face spotted the group in the canteen. At least, it was vaguely familiar to Molly. He'd finally trimmed his beard.

_Good on him_, she thought. _He doesn't look so…manic._

Anderson, steaming cup of coffee in one hand, file in the other, and a grin on his face, waltzed up to the group, who were sitting in a hodge-podge on one side of the canteen. "Molly! Molly Hooper! Long time no see, eh? Lestrade told me you were coming back for a visit. Didn't expect to run into you, though. Back on the force, did Sherlock tell you? No, of course he wouldn't. You look good, your girls look good. Just came by myself for some coffee – had to discuss a case with Gunner – he took your old job, Molly. Not nearly as accommodating as you, though. Sherlock – John – girls," he nodded to each in turn, and at Mary, and then noticed Tom. His grin widened and went a little lopsided. "What's with the Sherlock impersonator?" He asked cheerfully, shooting a look at Sherlock. "Hopefully you're not planning on disappearing again after a crazy stunt! Think of what that would do to our case load!"

Even the girls were silent with surprise. Not even they had dared to focus so bluntly on the similarities in appearance of Tom and their father.

Anderson just looked between the members of the group, his grin faltering a bit as he took in their expressions, which varied between utter shock, amusement, and anger.

Tom recovered first. "I'm – I'm not an impersonator!" He snapped irritably. "I'm Tom Parker! I'm Molly's fiancée!"

Anderson's eyes widened in understanding, and it took him a moment to stop mimicking a fish. "Oh. Uh…my mistake." He studied Tom seriously, and nodded enthusiastically. "You're right, my mistake. I see it now. Wasn't looking closely, before, I guess. Sherlock's got much…er…his cheekbones…are more defined, and your hair is all wrong, and your eyes aren't quite right – not sure how I saw a resemblance in the first place. Sorry!" He tried valiantly to recover, and failed.

"Thank you, Anderson, for...that." Sherlock said tightly, noting Molly's mortified expression. "Best not to keep that murder victim waiting. I'm sure you'll need all the time you can get with her in order to see the obvious fact that she was drowned in the bathtub and _then_ dumped into the pool."

Anderson's mouth froze open in a little scowl. "How'd - ? Right. Contents of her lungs. _Right!_" He said excitedly, thumbing through the file in his hand.

He flashed the group another grin and a nod, and then he was off.

Tom was steaming into his soup, giving just about everyone except Molly dirty looks, but the grateful smile Molly bestowed on Sherlock made all the snide comments he wanted to throw Tom's way die on his tongue.

* * *

Lunch did not go any better for Tom Parker.

The girls made jokes about the pork, about the noodles, about the sauce, about the _grapes_, for Pete's sake – and all of the other adults tucked into their food with enthusiasm, laughing and discussing the topics of said jokes with the girls. Tom found he could only manage to eat some crackers, half a bowl of soup, and a large glass of water.

"How," he began miserably, "How can you all _talk_ about this stuff while you're _eating_?"

Gigi smiled winningly at him and patted his arm once. "It used to gross me out, too," she said, always innocuous. "Still does, sometimes. I prefer my orange juice without kidney. But you get used to it, after a while. Body parts in the fridge, collections of specimens hidden in various places. I know Mum doesn't do that-"

"-but she still talks about it a lot," Lydia continued. "A _lot_ a lot. She likes it, don't you, Mum?"

Molly gave her girls a smile and blushed. "Well, I like discovering things. About the human body. Useful things. And I always did love giving people closure, when I did the autopsies."

"Thankfully, you don't _have_ to do that, anymore, if you don't want to." Tom said, relieved.

Molly just gave him a curious look and finished her noodles. "But I do want to. At least, I wouldn't mind. You know that."

* * *

After lunch, the girls insisted on seeing the morgue where their mother worked and began her research.

John and Mary bowed out, giving each other knowing grins and declaring that the family (including Tom, though they seemed reluctant to include him, in that) should have some alone time to get to know each other better.

_They'd both seen the way Sherlock had watched Molly carefully, all morning – the lingering glances, the forced indifference when she looked his way, the smallest, gentlest return of the smallest smiles._

_And they'd seen the grateful glances Molly had given Sherlock, and the way Molly had wavered, looking between Sherlock and Tom, forcing herself to focus on her fiancée. _

_Who really, had not won himself any points thus far, on their visit to London._

"Nothing better for family togetherness than a date in the morgue!" Mary said cheerfully, kissing the girls on the cheek.

"Delightfully morbid," John agreed, mimicking Tom's earlier words, but meaning them genuinely. "And perfectly suited to this lot." He, too, gave the girls a kiss, and whispered between them – "_Be. Nice._"

They grinned up at him. "Of course, Uncle John. Of course." Lydia beamed.

"Have fun on your date with Mary!" Gigi called slyly.

John shook his head at them, still grinning.

"Shall we?" He asked, offering the woman in question his arm.

"Lead the way, soldier," she smirked, taking it.

* * *

Tom had taken a bathroom break shortly before the morgue, and Lydia had excused herself to use the bathroom, as well. When he returned, she was waiting between two sets of doors.

"Well?" He asked, giving her a strained smile.

"Well what?"

"Where are we going, now?"

"Oh," Lydia said brightly. "Here, I think." She motioned to the door on her left.

"Right." He said. "Thanks."

He pushed the door open, and was met with the sight of Gunner the pathologist, up to his elbows in intestines. "Can I help you?" The pathologist frowned. "I'm a bit busy, at the moment."

Tom quickly shut the door, face pale.

He turned to look at her. "I'm _onto_ you, you little brat," he snarled, loosing his temper in an effort to keep from regurgitating that soup from earlier.

He looked as though he were about to say more, but Molly popped her head out the door on Lydia's right. "Hullo, you two!" She smiled. "This way! Wouldn't want to interrupt Gunner. He's working."

Tom gave her a forced smile. "No, of course not. Wouldn't want to interrupt him."

* * *

The morgue was full of dead bodies, questions, and – giggles.

Molly gave everyone the tour, smiling in fond memory at all the work she'd done, here, over the years. She answered the girls' questions about her most disgusting and most challenging autopsies with guarded detail and a careful filter.

Still, she couldn't help but giggle when Sherlock cut in, praising her cast-iron stomach while working with the putrefied remains of a prison escapee who'd wedged himself into a sewer pipe and could not get out.

"That was certainly a crappy way to go," Molly joked, obviously pleased at Sherlock's praise. She gave him an appreciative glance, which he returned. He decidedly ignored her joke.

Lydia groaned, but Gigi giggled delightedly. "Crappy..." She snorted again. "Mum!" She giggled.

"Hey, now, someone likes my jokes!" Molly said brushing a stray hair out of Gigi's face affectionately, and giggling herself.

Sherlock watched, his lips twitching in one corner.

Tom had had enough of the morgue, however. "Charming. Yes. Could we…move on, now? Please?" He looked a bit pale, though there really hadn't been anything…graphic, to see, there.

Molly sighed, and offered him a small smile. "Of course, Tom. We can make the lab our last stop."

The girls groaned good-naturedly, and followed the adults down the hallway, to the elevators. They gave each other a smirk and a nod as they prepared for their grand finale.

* * *

The lab was ready for them when they arrived.

Lab smocks, goggles, and an array of tools and carefully preserved eyeballs were set out on the counter.

Molly blinked, and gave Sherlock a confused look.

His own eyebrows were raised in surprise for half a second, before gracing his daughters with a knowing smirk.

"We had a chat with Mr. Stamford, Mum. We found his number on Uncle John's phone yesterday during lunch, and called him yesterday evening, and asked if we could do one experiment together, for old time's sake. Of course, we had to promise that we, ten-year-old girls, would just watch, like we always do. But there's enough for you, and Dad, and Tom to work together!" The girls smiled brightly after Gigi's explanation.

Molly pressed her lips in an effort to hold back a pleased smile. "You bring Gigi to the lab to watch, often?" She asked Sherlock conversationally.

"Mmm," he hummed in a non-committal, agreeing sort of way, giving her a pleased smile of his own. "As you do with Lydia."

Tom was looking warily at the eyeballs, and swallowed. "What kind of experiment could you possibly need to do on eyeballs, today?"

"One where you test the effect of different variables, like acids, bases, solutions, fire, and so on, on the damage to the retinas or tissue," Lydia said immediately. "Mike Stamford helped me pick this one out."

"And it's not even bloody or…or too gross, so you can help, Tom!" Gigi announced proudly.

Sherlock was already pulling on his smock and goggles. "Come, Tom," he said neutrally. "It would be a waste not to use this excellent selection of eyes."

"And," Lydia added, "If you're going to be our new step-dad, you should be able to help us with an experiment."

"Please," Gigi added. "The three of you can teach us all about eyes, and lecture us on proper eye protection, and all that. And we – can we please, please use the tongs to hand you the eyes? Please?"

Sherlock and Molly exchanged another communicating-without-speaking glance, and Sherlock nodded his affirmation at Gigi's question.

Molly was already pulling on her smock and goggles, as well. "Come on, Tom," she said gently, smiling up at him. "This will be fun. We don't get the chance to do this kind of hands-on work together often."

Tom nodded, and swallowed. "Okay."

* * *

The experiment went surprisingly well for the first thirty minutes.

There were a few awkward moments, on the parts of Sherlock and Molly. Once, Sherlock handed Molly a flask rather unceremoniously, focusing on a solution he was mixing before him, and after a moment, he glanced up at her again. "Er…" he stated. "Could you…fetch…the…hydrochloric acid? Please."

She'd nodded, and blushed, and fetched it.

And then, Molly had announced the damage to the eye tissue Tom was currently working on, matter-of-factly, to Sherlock.

Old habits die hard.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, lips parted minutely, before nodding his head. "Right. Tom - ?" He asked, darting a gaze at the man.

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed. "Right, sorry. Um. Tom – sclera fully dissolved, choroid gelatinous, retina intact. Pupil and iris discoloured…"

Tom blinked, and nodded, and began to record the information.

There was one task left to perform – testing the effects of flame.

"Dad's done this loads of times," Gigi said. "Why don't we let Mum or Tom do this one?"

"I think Tom should do it," Lydia agreed. "He's done so well so far! He deserves it!"

By now, Tom had had enough of the private, self-satisfied smirks Sherlock was sending his way at every opportunity throughout their little experiment. It was obvious that Molly worked extremely well with him – better than with Tom. They had years of collaborative cooperation on their side. Tom had only known her for a few months, and usually avoided the messy labs, if possible. But he'd about had it, with Sherlock. And the girls. They'd been making him look like a fool all day. The past few days, in fact.

"Fine. I'll do it," he announced. He would be damned if he would let that insane trio chase him away from brilliant Molly Hooper.

"Okay," Molly said, pleased. She handed Tom the tongs with the last eyeball that the girls had given her – a rather large eyeball with a greenish-blue iris - and he proceeded to hold it warily over the Bunsen burner, careful to control the flame.

While he roasted, the girls began talking, observing from the opposite end of the long countertop, their own smocks and goggles on protectively.

"This was so awesome, Mum!" Lydia exclaimed. "They let you do so much here! A lot more than they let you do at home."

"I loved it, too!" Gigi added. "Can we do this every year? Come back to Bart's? All together? And do experiments?"

Molly hesitated, but she was smiling. She looked at Sherlock, who inclined his head and shrugged, as if to say, 'doesn't matter to me'. "I guess…" she began. "I suppose a little family time in the lab couldn't hurt, once a year," she drawled out thoughtfully. "As long as-"

She was interrupted by a wet, muffled 'pop', and the smell and sound of…something unsavory splattering against the counter, and…Tom…

She turned to stare, with wide eyes. Tom was standing, stiff and horrified, with exploded eyeball remains over the majority of his person. In his hair, on his face – everywhere. He was still gripping the tongs above the flame, and his eyes were wide behind his smeared goggles, his mouth pressed tightly closed, thank goodness – no eyeball pieces in there.

"Oh – what – Tom!" She cried, and immediately moved to help him turn off the burner. She gently removed the tongs from his hand and began to clean up the splattered remains.

She wiped off his face, took off his goggles and smock, and led him to the sink, where she cleaned herself, and then helped him scrub himself clean.

After a moment near the rushing water, he lost his lunch into the rubbish bin near the sink, and Molly patted his back awkwardly. "I don't understand," she said. "Eyeballs don't…they don't _explode._ What-?"

Sherlock was studying the remains of the eye, and quickly took a sample, and mixed it with a solution. It turned purple. He then proceeded to take another small amount that had once been at the center of the eye, sniffed it, and then held the sample over another open flame. It immediately fizzled and poofed. "Girls," he said carefully. "Care to explain why this particular eye was injected with the perfume from my flammability experiment last month? The same perfume that is currently sitting on the top shelf of my medicine cabinet in the bathroom at home?"

The girls eyed each other warily. Uncle Mycroft had warned him that he needed to make it look like it was them, or their dear father would be onto him, and that Sherlock's focus would be taken from Molly and laser-pointed onto his brother. They'd been willing to take the fall.

"Lydia!" Molly said angrily. "Gigi!"

She didn't get to go on, because by now, Tom had rinsed his mouth out, and was sputtering angrily himself. "Oh, we are _never coming back_," he said, his voice hoarse. "I knew from the moment I met you – _both_ of you-" he glared at the girls, gesturing between them – "that encouraging this…this…insanity-" he flailed his arms wildly around him – "would only lead to trouble. This whole thing is _ridiculous_ – what sane _child_, is interested in experimenting on actual eyeballs, for Pete's sake! What sane person – what kind of _child_ – even knows how to inject eyes with…flammable…exploding…substances in the first place! This is _wrong_," he sputtered, pointing an accusing finger at the girls.

Sherlock bristled at Tom's outburst, and his eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth to defend his girls - but Molly beat him to it. Her voice was filled with a soft, deadly, familiar dangerousness that Sherlock was all too glad to have directed at someone other than himself.

"Tom," she said. "You are not to speak to my daughters that way. There is _nothing_ wrong with them. Though what they _did_ was absolutely wrong," she added, giving them her best mother glare.

The girls swallowed, looking between the adults in the room.

But Tom was shaking his head. "You can't be serious, Molly," he protested, his voice still hoarse. "You can't be _serious_. You cannot encourage this kind of…of…unhealthy obsession any longer. You have – you have to _choose_. It's them – here – this – this-" he flailed his arms again dramatically, encompassing the messy lab, and the girls, and Sherlock, "-this freak show of a circus with these two brats and an insufferable man-child in this insane city – it's _his _way – with ridiculous cases and experiments and danger and raising children – _inappropriately_ – or it's _ME,_ Molly Hooper. Me, and my way. Me, biomedicine engineer, self-made man of science, philanthropist - safe, normal, comfortable ME, who will encourage these girls to straighten up and pursue _noble_ interests, not exploding eyeballs. It is ME," he reiterated, practically foaming at the mouth now, confident anger shining in his eyes, "or _this_. Understand?"

Sherlock was as still as the girls, watching and waiting. This was her fight; her choice, and he waited for her answer. He could always kill the man later. A quick glance at the girls determined that though mildly insulted, they did not take his rant to heart. Still. No one insulted his daughters like that. _No one_. If Tom Parker had any secrets – if he had anything worth hiding – Sherlock Holmes would find out.

He remembered a moment later that murdering Molly's fiancée may be a bit extreme and would most likely be considered 'unforgivable'. Though hopefully, Tom would soon be an ex-fiancée. Still…better choose something less…permanent, for revenge.

They were all waiting for Molly's answer. For Molly's choice.

But then, the girls knew what her choice would be all along.

Still, they watched with wide eyes, not having expected Tom's…confrontation to be quite so dramatic; quite so…_final_.

Molly paled, and blinked for a moment, eyes wide, face serious, and chest rising and falling slowly and carefully. Suddenly, she smiled at Tom. He began to smile back, relief shining in his eyes, and then –

"This," she said sweetly, back ramrod straight and eyes glittering defiantly.

He blinked, and looked back at her. "What?" He said through clenched teeth.

"_This_," she repeated confidently. "Them.." She swept her arms around the messy lab, encompassing Sherlock and the girls, walking to her daughters and placing a protective arm around each of them. "This. _Understand_?"

His face clouded over angrily. "You're…you're as crazy as they are, aren't you? You're making a _mistake_, Molly Hooper."

Sherlock clenched his fists, his nails digging half-moons into his palm.

Molly narrowed her eyes at Tom. "No," she said quietly. "No, I don't think I am."

Tom stormed out of the lab, and Lydia was about to instigate a high-five, when Molly turned on them, her glare making Lydia's high-five hand tuck itself back behind her back. "Oh no, Lydia Margaret Hooper. You, and Genevieve Violet Holmes, are in _serious, serious _trouble. The kind of trouble that makes you wish you had thought twice about injecting an eyeball with flammable perfume. The kind of trouble that makes you wish you'd thought _four or five_ times about messing about with chemicals and body parts. You both," she announced grandly, "are-"

She was interrupted when Tom slammed the doors open again and began to stalk toward Molly, fury on his face.

Sherlock stepped smoothly in Tom's path, glowering down at the man.

Tom faltered, but soon returned Sherlock's glare.

"I require my ring," he said haughtily, voice wavering slightly. "Dr. Hooper needs to return it to me."

Sherlock's voice was ice. "Dr. Hooper needs to do nothing of the sort," he stated. "In fact, Dr. Hooper will never 'need' to do anything for you, ever again. And if you have a problem with that-"

"Sherlock," Molly said quietly, and he glanced down at her hand on his arm. He blinked at the contact.

"Sherlock," she repeated, and she held out something in her fingers. Sherlock took it in his palm. The ring. "Just give it to him." Sherlock resisted the urge to throw it in Tom's face. He was nearly positive he could hit him in the eye.

Tom snatched it up without a word of thanks, and let the doors slam shut behind him.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the girls' bedroom door. "Tea for the inmates, girls," she announced cheerfully. The woman had been surprised when Tom had pounded on the door, and then collected his things and left without a word. She'd been even more surprised to hear about the girls' little 'experiment' with Tom in the lab. The girls had been grounded into the school year, for sure.

They were currently sitting on Gigi's floor, playing Cluedo and listening to music and snacking on the tea and biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought for them, looking like the least guilty girls in the world.

Sherlock had left shortly after the little family had arrived back at Baker Street, claiming to have received a text from Lestrade about a case.

(It would later be discovered that he had set about making Tom's return home as miserable as possible, after solving Greg's case in a matter of minutes.)

John and Mary were still out on the town. After checking on the girls, and Molly – the poor woman did just break off an engagement, after all – Mrs. Hudson left, as well.

* * *

Molly sat curled in Sherlock's armchair, her forehead pressed against the leather, an afghan draped over her lap and shoulder. She was still surprisingly dry-eyed, all things considered. She'd been so disgusted with Tom's outburst – with his accusations and insinuations about her girls, and about Sherlock, and really, subtly about herself – and so angry, that her other feelings were a long time coming.

They were coming, now. The girls had had supper delivered to their room, they'd showered, and they were banished safely to Gigi's room, for the evening. She'd heard them listening to music and knew they were probably having fun up there – but she decided to let it slide. This was there last night together, anyway.

She attempted to swallow back the hot tears that pricked at her eyes, but to no avail. She knew now, of course, that it had been foolish to even date Tom, and downright stupid of her to agree to marry him. For all his charm, he had never been appreciative of her full self. He appreciated the intelligent, sweet, caring part of her, but the part of her with a morbid sense of humor, and the part of her that delighted in discovering new things about the human body by experimenting on it – that part, he'd always tried to ignore, or squash.

Sherlock never had. She'd always been fully herself around him, and he'd always appreciated that. She also knew, after today – in his company, watching the way he worked with the girls, and working with him herself, again in the lab – that she still loved him. She loved him, and she wanted…to be _with_ him, again.

But she couldn't. Because there was still…his choice. He'd chosen the case, all those years ago, and just this afternoon, well…not that she'd asked him to stay…but he'd chosen to go out on a case, again. He was an admirable father, and had obviously chosen to make room for Gigi in his life. And now – Lydia, as well. She was grateful for that, but also…sad, and a little hurt – and ridiculously, a little jealous. He'd been able to choose his daughters, but he had not chosen her.

The silent tears she cried against Sherlock's leather chair were not for Tom.

The girls' soft iPod music – they were currently working through an Ed Sheeran playlist – did nothing to help.

* * *

Sherlock came home an hour later, and Molly was still in his armchair. The girls were playing the sort of music teenage girls do, from their room, and you could make out most of the music, if not all the words. They'd already made their way through songs by Ed Sheeran, Sam Smith, Kelly Clarkson, Paramore, Passenger, and A Great Big World. They were currently working through an apparent playlist of love ballads. At the moment, they were on Journey. _'Open Arms'_, to be specific.

Molly stirred reluctantly as he took off his Belstaff and scarf, watching her all the while.

She was too tired to read him, and too tired to care if he was reading her.

She made to get up.

"Stay," Sherlock said softly.

"No, no, it's…fine. I'm sure…you'll…want to use it," she muttered, and shifted quickly to the couch.

But he sat down on the couch beside her, instead, careful to give her space, and focused on a spot on the floor.

"You've been crying," he said after a moment.

She stiffened a bit.

"Do you want me to track Tom down?" Sherlock asked, his voice low.

Molly shook her head. "No."

There was silence between them, for a moment. "Would you like me to ensure that no one can ever track him down?" He asked seriously.

Molly's lips twitched into a smile. "No." After a moment, she confirmed – "Seriously, no. Don't…just…let him go. I mean - do let him go."

He sighed. "I'm…sorry." It was almost a question.

She let out a breath. "For once, Sherlock, you really don't need to say that. It wasn't your fault."

He hesitated. "I know…but…I'm still…sorry. You…do deserve to be happy."

She looked up at him through wet lashes, surprised at his…compassion.

"But I suppose I can confess now that I never liked the man - he's dull, and an idiot - and I'm quite pleased you won't be happy with _him_." He said lightly, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

She laughed a bit, but her eyes pricked with new tears, because _this was the man she left behind_. He was as endearing and wonderful and crazy unique as always.

_He chose the cases,_ she reminded herself.

She quickly blinked and stood, to stand beside the window.

Sherlock stayed on the couch, watching her.

After a moment, she felt him beside her, and a gentle hand tucking her hair behind her ear. "Contrary to popular belief," he stated softly, "I will not judge you for crying, in this particular instance, Molly Hooper."

She held her composure for another moment, before balling one hand into a fist at her side and pressing the other hand against her mouth and stifling a sob. He was just about killing her with his kindness, right now.

* * *

He wanted to touch her, _so badly._ He'd wanted to touch her since he first saw her in her lab coat at that hotel in Sacramento – but her reaction to his appearance and the blatantly obvious inappropriateness of the situation was enough for him to forcefully suppress his desire for tactile contact.

He'd succumbed during their brunch – they were alone, and it was an admission, on his part – but he'd kissed her cheek, and it re-opened a door he'd shut long ago – eleven years ago, the day he'd boarded a plane for Greece, to be exact.

_He wanted to touch her._

He wanted to bury his face in her hair, and smooth the strands from her face, and trace the outline of her cheeks and jawline with his fingertips, and kiss the tip of her nose, and each soft, rounded eyelid, and her _lips_ –

-But he was quite certain that to act on such an urge would be seen as 'taking advantage', and selfish, and something requiring forgiveness, and again – he was determined that he would do nothing requiring Molly Hooper's forgiveness.

He was stoically ecstatic when Tom had been removed from the picture. He'd had to act the stern father, of course – because really, the girls had been…inappropriate…and brilliant…and really, he felt like buying them both ice cream sundaes.

Because her choice – she chose _them_ – it renewed a hope in him, albeit a very tiny, hesitant one.

He did not want to be the one to mess things up, this time.

She'd made her choice, and she obviously needed time to process it.

But he had hope.

He would be whatever she needed, for as long as he could, to make her happy. If that meant being a father for the girls, and nothing else – nothing to Molly – he would do that. If that meant being an occasional lab partner once a year, he could do that. If that meant being a…friend, when she'd just broken up with her fiancée –

He swallowed.

He could do that.

But he did not trust himself. Despite all his deductions – he was not a mind reader, and he was not sure exactly what she wanted, in that moment. So he did his best not to press himself on her.

He had intended to keep his hands held tightly behind his back, after their little wandering to her face, to brush the hair behind her ear –

-but he could not help brushing against her arm, and his fingers hesitated over the fist at her side, and she shuddered, and then pressed her hand against his palm, brushing the tears out her eyes with her free hand.

His fingers closed over her hand gently.

After a moment, the muscles in her hand relaxed, and she turned it slightly, so that she was holding his as well.

He was frozen, thrilled at her touch, and his heart beat thudded in his ears and his mind whirred at the memory of that particular sensation, and his other senses were on high alert as he took in her stance – still stiff, but accepting his – comfort – his selfish comfort.

And he wanted to apologize, to clear the air, to thank her, to make her see - "Molly," he said softly.

* * *

She gripped his hand tightly, holding on, knowing that this wouldn't last, and dreading the moment when he pulled away, and she was weakly disappointed in herself for feeling that way.

"Molly," he said softly -

A crash from somewhere in the girls' rooms interrupted them, and the music currently playing cut off. The silence was quickly followed by a shout of 'Oops, sorry Gigi!' and an 'I'll fix it, Lydia!' and a sudden loud blasting of Celine Dion's _It's All Coming Back to Me, _before the volume was lowered a smidgen_. _The music could still be heard through the closed door and thin walls, though it was a bit muffled.

They both stiffened for a moment, looking decidedly away from each other, and releasing their grip on each other like they'd been caught doing something wrong.

Molly straightened her hair and wiped her eyes dry, and they stood, looking anywhere but at each other.

And then, the absurdity of the song currently blasting around them caused Sherlock to snort and roll his eyes, and Molly to snort, and then they both burst out laughing.

"They may be capable of the mass destruction of a human eyeball, but they _are_ still ten-year-old girls," Molly said, shaking her head.

Sherlock nodded. "Genevieve listens to these a lot. These…sort of songs," he said, waving his hand through the air and scrunching his nose.

Molly laughed. "I did, too, when I was ten. I used to lip-sync and make up dances to them with my best friend Kristin."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, and his lips twitched as though trying to form a smile.

She took another step back. "Um…thank you. For…that." She said, gesturing in front of her with an open palm.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's…fine."

The stood facing each other for another moment.

Sherlock shifted on his feet. "Are you…tired?"

Molly shook her head and smiled again. "No. No, I don't think I'll sleep very well tonight at all."

He hesitated, and then looked at her quickly, before refocusing on the floor. "There is still that extra kidney in the fridge…if you'd…like to go through it. With me."

She smoothed her hands on her slacks, and bit her lip, thinking for a moment. _He's absolutely crazy, and apparently, so am I. Because experimenting on a kidney sounds like the perfect way to nurse my wounded heart._

He gave her a timid smile. "Not exactly chocolate ice cream, but..."

Seconds later, she looked up at him, with a wide smile. "I'd love to."

* * *

They worked together for nearly an hour, Gigi and Lydia's iPod list providing an ambiance that the two experimenters alternatingly, determinedly ignored - or found reluctantly amusing.

They worked their way through _Unchained Melody_, and Molly's cheeks burned when Sherlock turned so that he was lightly pressed against her, reaching around her to grab a knife, and paused to adjust the angle on the tongs she was holding. She wondered if he even realized what movie he was paralleling. She laughed a little too loudly and began talking about how old chord progressions and rhythms were starting to be integrated into newer music.

A few songs later, they worked their way through _Take My Breath Away_, and Sherlock had to hold his breath and count the square roots of irrational numbers backwards when Molly smiled up at him after squatting at the table so that she was eye-level with the graduated cylinder she was pouring water into. When she stood, he began telling her about the recent case that Lydia had helped him with – the one with the beryl coronet.

They worked their way through _Eternal Flame_, and Molly suddenly burst out laughing at the line _I watch you while you are sleeping_.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in question, still focused on analyzing the final slide beneath his microscope.

"Just realized how…stalkerish, that line sounds." She chatted about it for a moment, and they discussed different songs that had a distinct stalker ring to them, and whether or not the bands and/or songwriters who created them were writing from experience. Molly let her voice trail off thoughtfully as she washed her hands, finishing up for the evening.

Sherlock watched her with equal thoughtfulness, and washed his hands after her.

She sanitized the table, and he watched, leaning smoothly against the counter-top.

She felt his eyes on her the whole time, and finally, she sighed. "Sherlock - what?" She asked softly.

And he pursed his lips, as if debating something. "Thank you, Molly Hooper. For choosing the girls. For choosing…us."

She froze, the cloth now still in her hand on the table. "I always will," she said softly.

And then, partly because of the little moments they just shared together – she felt more comfortable with him and happier and also worried and nervous and she wanted to remind him – and herself – why it couldn't be like this, forever. For much longer, in fact.

They were leaving tomorrow afternoon. She and Lydia and Mary. She'd made the arrangements soon after returning to Baker Street.

So, she let it out. "I just wish you would have done the same."

She studied the rag in her hands, and then looked up to him.

Her eyes were serious and open and confronting and searching for some sort of closure.

His eyes were sad and questioning and resigned, in a way that only Molly Hooper could see.

"I did," he said quietly.

She looked at him sharply. Because _how dare he try to turn things around._ "You chose-" she said harshly.

"-_you_," he insisted, just as sharply, straightening from the counter. "I chose _you_, Molly Hooper. I went to Greece to protect _you_. And the girls. There was a man, Jackson Buttegieg - a mob boss, of sorts. Magnusson was supposed to…acquire some information for him. When he died, because of me…and…"

"Janine," she supplied automatically, barely breathing.

"Yes," he winced, a barely noticeable thing – but Molly noticed. "When Magnusson died, Jackson was determined to get one of us to collect that information for him. Since Janine was conveniently tucked away in a maximum security prison, I became his target. And so did you. And the girls. Mycroft informed me of this. He said his men and women could take the man out in a matter of weeks, but that if I were to go to the man, I could take him down in less than a week. I figured the sooner he was out of the picture and his crosshairs were off of my family, the better. I went to Greece, Molly, but I _chose_ you."

His eyes did not leave her face as he explained, but she could not make out his expression through the sudden blur of tears in her vision.

"Why…" she gasped. The air suddenly felt thicker and heavier, and drawing it into her lungs was a chore. "Why are you telling me this, now? Why not…then?"

"I tried," he said simply. Gently. Stiffly. "And you…did not want to hear me."

She blinked at the floor, and then looked up at him.

"No," she said, her voice strained. "I suppose I didn't."

"I should have tried harder," he admitted, his hands behind his back. "To…explain. But I was…afraid." _That you'd still refuse me. That I'd fail you again. That you'd convince me not to go, and that you would be hurt, because of my weakness._

The admission hung between them – not quite an apology, but nevertheless a large step, for Sherlock.

And, in a knee-jerk reaction to encourage and thank him for that admission, Molly made one of her own.

"I wanted an excuse to leave, because you hurt me. You hurt me, Sherlock, and I…I didn't want to get hurt anymore," she admitted back. "But I always wanted you to come after me. I think that hurt the most – that you didn't…come after me." The last sentence was almost a whisper.

They had moved toward each other during their confessions, and were standing a hand-breadth apart, Molly looking at Sherlock's shoes, and Sherlock studying just how her hair framed her face and downcast eyes.

"I didn't – know," he whispered hoarsely. "I didn't know you wanted me to come after you. I am highly observant, Molly, but I am not, and have never been, a mind reader."

It was like jumping off of the high dive, or out of a tree, or off of a swing at the peak of its trajectory.

There was a sensation of falling – that feeling of complete exhilaration, and of total surrender, and of absolute terror. The kind you get when you leap from something safe, be it a tree, or a swing, or a diving board - _or the knowledge that your heart is long-untouched and unreachable_ – the moment before you land, before your body makes contact with the ground or the water or your heart is opened again - and everything makes wonderful terrible sense and the world is right again.

They were at that point.

They were about to make contact.

Molly's hand hovered over his chest, and his hands gravitated toward her waist.

"Molly-" Sherlock whispered.

_I'm so sorry. I am the most uncomprehending and unmitigated ass. I should have fought for you - for you, Molly Margaret Hooper - softener of edges, calmer of chaos, sweet humility to my hubris, and light to my darkness. I should have told you everything. I should have fought with the passion of a thousand suns. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry -  
_

He knew what he wanted to say.

But the words were frozen on his suddenly clumsy tongue.

The sound of a door slamming shut below them sounded, and Mary's loud laughter floated up the stairway and through the thin walls of Baker Street, followed by the opening of another door, and Mrs. Hudson's voice accompanying those of John and Mary's.

Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed. "They're…home."

Molly blinked rapidly and took a step away, and the hand that was poised over Sherlock's chest fell trembling to her side.

"Right," she whispered, and nodded. "Right."

He looked desperately at her, and she at him.

When Sherlock did not speak, and the distinctive pound of John's footsteps sounded on the stairs, Molly spoke.

"I'd…better go," Molly said. "See what Mary's been up to, all this time." She gave him a weak smile.

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

John could not understand why, when he poked his head into the sitting room and asked cheerfully what happened with Tom, Sherlock retreated to his bedroom, ceremoniously slammed the door shut, and refused to speak to him for the rest of the night.

* * *

**Okay, okay - they're making slow progress, but it's progress - right?! Grr! Those two!  
**

**Never fear - they will get some sense knocked into them by their daughters. I'm getting a little tired of all this sadness, and it's time to bring some happy back into the picture! Next chapter! Next chapter! (I'd never realized how dramatic the whole middle of the Parent Trap was until I wrote this story. Sheesh!)  
**

**I hope Mycroft's involvement was believable and not too too understated or overstated or what have you. I wanted part of the brilliance of his plan to be that it seemed like the girls could pull it off on their own, because if Sherlock or Molly suspected too strongly that Mycroft was behind all this...that might throw a wrench in the make-up plan.**

**And, I know this chapter included some cheesiness, but I hope you will forgive me for it, because: A) The Parent Trap itself is delightfully cheesy goodness and I wanted to include some of that in my story, and B) see 'A'. :)**

**The next chapter will include chases and second chances.  
**

**And Tom, the delightful oaf, will be back in the next chapter. (He's about to do something terribly stupid.) And Mycroft will make amends for his meddling and his role in the divorce. (Finally!)**

**The heartbreak! The drama! The trans-continental pursuit and delightfully mushy nonsense! I can't wait! :)  
**

**Thanks for your reviews, guests and everyone else!**

**Arcoiris - Thank you! 'Believable' is a much-appreciated compliment, because Parent Trap Sherlock sort of pushes the limits by nature...but I'm glad it's working! I'm having so much fun! And...I'm glad you mentioned the whole 'make it believable for Sherlock to keep one of the kids' thing. I added the explanation with Anthea and Mycroft because of that. Molly would be very protective, as any mother would - but she's also very sensitive, I think, and I like to think that Anthea could be gentle and persuasive if she wanted to be. I kind of like the idea of Anthea being sort of on the lookout for Sherlock. Like a sister. Thanks again!**

**Black Night - Actually, in the original story, one of the maids/employees of Milverton (the original Magnusson) IS the one who attacks him. (Can't remember if she actually kills him or just injures him.) So I just went with ACD on that one. :) And yes...miscommunication is such a 'normal' problem...it seems sadder to me that it would happen to Sherlock. Though it doesn't surprise me. Hope you enjoyed the twins' torture of Tom! And thanks again for the review!  
**

**Thanks again everyone! :D**


	12. It Takes Two

**Hello everybody!**

**I am pumped up on back-to-school adrenaline!**

**Still don't own Sherlock, or the Parent Trap, or Frozen (which is mentioned again in this chapter), or anything of the sort.**

**Thanks OpalSkyLoveDivine for all you do! :) **

**Without further ado:**

* * *

Chapter 12: It Takes Two

_"Wanna travel back in time –_

_Say the things I didn't say._

_I wanna tell you everything – if it's not too late._

_Is it too late?"_

-For King and Country, "People Change"

* * *

_After Molly leaves, it is as though Sherlock enables a sort of safety, in his mind, that allows him to focus on case-solving and experiment-doing and child-raising , without pondering on how exactly he got that child in the first place. It takes a busy Sherlock exactly three years, three months, and twenty-six days to come to terms with the fact that Molly is gone, and that he misses her, terribly._

_Yes, he is busy. Busy with Genevieve and case-solving and experiment-doing and all other methods of avoidance, until the day he is in the lab, cleaning out the small fridge where he houses his experiments, because this newest pathologist (he's been through six in the past three years, before settling with Gunner) insists that he does it himself. _

_And he misses Molly for it. _

_It sneaks up on him, because he doesn't make the exact correlation at first – he simply misses a pathologist who keeps things neat and organized and clean for him. And then he realizes that the only one who has ever done it exactly right is Molly, and she did it for him because she…loved him, and…he misses her. _

_It makes him sad, and contemplative, and he hides it from John, because a sad 'I told you so, you giant git' is not the conversation he wants to have right now. (Or ever.)_

_This is also when Sherlock learns that Gigi is as perceptive of his feelings as her mother was. _

_He is home, later that evening, and John is out on yet another attempt at dating, and three-year-old Gigi is keeping herself quietly occupied, as she always does – talking to herself in her dreamy little girl language, and illustrating her own childish masterpieces, and being quite possibly the easiest child in existence to raise – and Sherlock is in his armchair, occasionally plucking his violin, and clicking through emails to try and choose his next case, determined to squash, once again, the desire to chase after his Molly._

_She left, and she has not been back. She is happier, now, without the pain he caused her. At least, she is fine. She's…okay. He is sure of it. (And if that little idea causes a prick of bitterness or a miniscule spark of betrayal or the tiniest flare of anger, toward her – he packs that away, too…because for some reason, it is easier to blame himself, for once, than it is to admit that Molly Hooper…let him down - if in a much smaller way than he let her down.)_

_And he is…okay. He has John, and Genevieve, and cases. He is perfectly fine. _

_Gigi interrupts his thoughts. She walks over on chubby toddler legs, though her face is thinning out of babyhood and more into the form of childhood, and places her hand timidly on his leg, and looks up at him with wide eyes. _

_He gives her a brief smile and continues working. She will often come lean against him for a moment, as though she needs to be reassured of his presence, before toddling off to play again. He doesn't mind, though, because it's often just as reassuring to him to have her close._

_Not tonight._

_Tonight, her words make his fingers freeze on the keys to his laptop._

_"Dada?"_

_"Mmm," he grunts noncommittally, but not unkindly, and he looks away from his work to give another smile to his daughter. _

_"You okay Dada? You look sad." _

_And his heart does this strange combination of freezing and plummeting, because that particular combination of six words is exactly the worst possible thing she could have said, at the moment. _

_And for the first time in a long time (three years, three months, and twenty-six days, to be precise), Sherlock cannot find the words to say._

_After several moments, she frowns, about to repeat the question, and he can't bring himself to look at her, so he says to the coffee table – "I'm okay, Genevieve" – because what else is he supposed to say to her? She is three years old, and even Sherlock is not so selfish and uncomprehending as to place such a burden on a three-year-old. _

_Later that evening, after Genevieve's teeth are brushed and her covers are tucked around her shoulders and Sherlock has returned the soft, breathy kiss that she placed on his cheek, he walks numbly to his own bedroom, and sits, and places his head in his hands._

_When he finally lifts his face from his hands hours later, both his cheeks and his palms are wet._

_He is not okay._

_The next morning, he begins researching the work of Doctor Molly Margaret Hooper. _

_When he finds she's only completed one minor research project in the past three years, due to lack of funding - he makes some arrangements._

* * *

_Halfway across the world, Molly Hooper suddenly finds anonymous benefactors donating large grants to Napa Valley's medical research facilities. And if someone else in the hospital occasionally wins the grant – there is always a second, or third, donation – until she is able to complete her research, as well._

* * *

Present Day

London, England

Molly lay awake in the darkness, listening to the soft, breathy snores of Mary Morstan.

The women – both Mrs. Hudson and Mary - were practically glowing when Molly let herself into Mrs. Hudson's flat. Molly had told them about Tom, and Mrs. Hudson began coughing in an ill-attempt to cover up her laughter at the tale. She then patted Molly cheerfully on the arm and told her, half-apologetically, that it was for the best. Mary hugged her, and asked how she felt about it with a serious, sly look in her eye. Molly's mouth curved upward into a reluctant smirk and she smacked her friend on the arm, and said that she felt sad but not overly concerned, and made the excuse that it was a long day and that she had a lot to think about. She then asked Mary to distract her with tales of John Watson, and Mary did not disappoint. Apparently John Watson could be a bit of a charmer, when he wanted to be. Molly couldn't help blushing and giggling distractedly when Mary told her about their little romp around London, but she was only half-listening.

Mary recognized this, and ushered her to the loo for a shower, and told her to get some rest, and to think about what it was she needed to think about.

By the time Molly had emerged from Mrs. Hudson's bathroom, Mrs. Hudson was retired for the evening and Mary was asleep.

Molly could not sleep. She kept replaying the night's events in her mind, and wondering what Sherlock would have said, had Mary and John not returned when they did. Honestly, though – though she was disappointed with the interruption, she really did need time to think about that little revelation of Sherlock's.

_He chose __**me**__._

She felt a return of that curious free-falling sensation she'd felt earlier that evening – that same lost and drifting feeling you experience when you realize that you have been blatantly wrong about something you had held to be true for a long, long time.

That feeling you experience quite often when you are a child, but that lessens in frequency as you become less sheltered and more aware of the world around you.

_If you make a face, it will __**not**__ freeze that way._

_The lyrics are, in fact - 'See that girl, watch that scene – diggin' the Dancing Queen', and __**not**__ 'See that girl, watch her scream – kicking the Dancing Queen'. _

_Twinkies do, in fact, have expiration dates._

_Pluto is no longer a planet._

That feeling that you often fight stubbornly, because you'd held on to a different version of the truth for so long.

It was that feeling Molly experienced when her long-held belief that Sherlock Holmes had chosen cases became, instead –

_Sherlock Holmes chose __**me.**_

She believed him. Molly Hooper always knew when to believe Sherlock Holmes. And she believed him.

He chose her.

It was frightening and exhilarating and left her hopelessly breathless as she wrapped her mind around that fact.

And then she realized what she'd done.

Sherlock Holmes, the love of her life – the father of her children – the most blessedly beautiful bane of her existence – had chosen _her_, and she'd left _him_.

She suddenly saw their whole interaction, from the day he left, through the girls' switch, to this very night, in a whole new light.

She felt guilt stab at her chest, and – emotionally mature woman that she was – she allowed herself to feel it, and reasoned through the purpose of its presence, and came to the conclusion that she had a bit of an apology to make to Sherlock.

Because he'd made a huge mess of things – he _was_ the one who lied, and cheated (even if she did believe that it meant nothing, it still _hurt_), and lied again - but she'd contributed to their divorce, in her own way.

So she thought into the wee hours of the morning until she had her apology just right – not excusing him of his wrongdoing or shifting the blame onto herself - but accepting her part in their troubles - and planned on presenting it to him the next morning. She was hopeful he would accept it, based on his actions the past week. He'd really – he'd been nothing but kind to her.

That didn't mean that she was going to jump into his arms willy-nilly – no, she had to be stronger than that tomorrow. Because she also realized that despite his kindness, he had made no mention or show of…reuniting. She wasn't entirely sure what he wanted. And she wasn't entirely sure what _she _wanted.

He'd still never apologized, for any of it.

Not that she _needed_ an apology to forgive him. She forgave him, of course. Especially now. (Though an apology for the Janine incident, and the lies, and…everything, would be extremely welcome.)

But she needed to know where he stood. She couldn't help but feel a bit confused as to why he'd never attempted to explain, after the girls were born. Why he hadn't even explained at the hotel, during their brunch. And why he'd never come after her.

Why did he let her go so…easily?

Just because he'd thought she didn't want him to come after her?

That didn't seem like Sherlock.

She realized that part of the reason he didn't come after her may have been because…she'd hurt him, too, and maybe…he was okay with her out of his life. That he was okay without her, because he didn't want to experience…whatever pain it was he'd experienced with her, again.

And she felt sad, for him.

She should apologize. He really wasn't good with the whole understanding how love worked, thing.

Her thoughts went round and round.

Because – really - his actions this past week may have been shouting love and devotion (at least for Sherlock Holmes), but his words had been on the caring side of distant and polite.

Molly always believed that actions spoke louder than words, but she wasn't going to assume Sherlock adored her and wanted her back.

That would be foolishness.

She wasn't sure if her heart could survive a kind, pitying rejection from the man.

_Black, two sugars_ rang in her ears.

_I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper_, echoed through her mind.

No, she…she could not do that again.

But perhaps…she could let him know, that she was…open. She could at least let him know that she…felt remorse for her part, in everything.

By 3 a.m., Molly Hooper was sure of two things:

1. That she wanted Sherlock Holmes back in her life, despite everything, because they just _fit_. It was _right_. She _loved _him.

2. That despite her realization that she still loved, and was in love, with Sherlock Holmes – she would not chase him. She might open the door, tomorrow morning – but he was the one that would have to walk through it.

It was a start.

* * *

Sherlock, for his part, seemed to be stuck in a sort of pre-apology limbo.

He couldn't seem to phrase it right – he couldn't seem to apologize at all.

He paced through the night, thinking and wondering why – why – was it so difficult to apologize, for everything that had transpired?

He hadn't had a terrible time apologizing to her before – _I'm sorry. Forgive me._ Simple. Why did this time have to be so much more difficult?

* * *

The flight was scheduled to leave at 2:30 p.m., and the women had planned on leaving for the airport at 11.

Molly fell asleep shortly after her 3 a.m. revelation, and woke with a start at 8:27 a.m.

Mary was still asleep.

Molly listened for sounds of wakefulness from the rest of the household, but heard nothing.

Perfect.

If she knew Sherlock at all, she knew he would not have slept last night, either.

If she had any luck at all, he would be awake, and she could make her apology and see what happened while the rest of Baker Street's inhabitants slept.

She carefully, quietly got out of bed, got dressed, and made her way up the stairs.

* * *

He was there, as she expected.

She opened the door, and he was standing, in his pajamas and dressing gown, staring out the window.

She bit her lip and blinked her resolve, and then knocked lightly on the wooden frame of the door to announce her entrance.

"Morning, Sherlock," she called softly, as she entered.

He turned his head to look at her, though the rest of his body did not follow. He watched her with wide eyes and a neutral expression.

She came to stand by him, shutting the door to the flat behind her. It was not cold, not at all, but she had goosebumps on her arms. She rubbed them briskly as she looked up at him.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes seemed to focus on her, and he took a small step back, as though allowing more of Molly into his line of vision.

"Molly," he replied.

The stood facing each other for a moment.

"Molly, I must-"

"Sherlock, I wanted to-"

The both began speaking at the same time, and stopped abruptly, together, as well.

Molly laughed, a quiet, nervous thing, and Sherlock's lips twitched up.

He blinked for a moment, and she could tell he was thinking – and then he nodded at her, encouraging her to speak.

She took a deep breath, and fiddled with the ends of her sleeves. "I just wanted to know if maybe, you wanted to have coffee, or something, before we go? To talk?"

She noticed the confused expression on his face, and his lack of reply, and continued, her bravery rapidly leaving her. "But if you don't feel like coffee, what I mean is - I just wanted to say," she said, and then let out a huff of air, before continuing. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry." She focused on the burgundy silk of his dressing gown, not looking into his face. "I'm sorry for my part, in…with…everything. I'm not…excusing what you did, or saying I agree with it, but I do…forgive you. And I'm just saying - I'm sorry that I made you choose between me and cases, even if it was only for three weeks, and that I made you feel like you couldn't talk to me about a case that was important and dangerous, and that I did not hear you out when you did try to talk to me. I'm…I apologize for hurting you. I'm sorry. I was afraid of losing you, though that probably sounds…counter-intuitive to you, now, based on my actions afterwards. And although I know you've been…more than kind to me, this past week, and I appreciate that – I really, really do – I did still want to say that I'm sorry, and that I hope you can forgive me -"

She stared at his dressing gown for another moment before lifting her gaze to his face.

He was staring at her, eyebrows lifted in surprise for another moment before furrowing in concentration, his eyes dark and faraway and a frown on his face.

Oh dear.

She stopped talking.

Perhaps she'd…misread something, somehow.

He seemed to be…in some sort of…shock.

"Sherlock?" She asked quietly. She swallowed. "Sherlock?"

He was stiff and unresponsive.

He was…

Bother.

He was in his mind palace.

Molly's cheeks burned red.

She hovered around him, for a moment, vacillating between staying and leaving.

Just because he was in his mind palace didn't mean he'd…rejected her apology.

She knew he'd be in there a while.

She wasn't sure exactly what he was thinking about – it could be her (she hoped it was her), or it could be a case that she'd reminded him of accidentally.

He may have not even heard the last bit of her speech.

She huffed in frustration and embarrassment, and her eyes darted around the room.

Hesitating for another moment, she finally decided not to waste time hovering by his side. He'd come out of that mind of his when he was good and ready.

She wasn't going to rush him to reply.

She was actually terrified at what his response would be.

She still wanted to hear it before she left.

"Sherlock," she said softly. "I'm…I'm going to make breakfast, and wake Mary, and pack. If you…want…coffee…let me know."

Blinking, she walked away and retreated to Mrs. Hudson's rooms.

* * *

Unbeknownst to the two parents, there was one more soul awake in Baker Street.

Gigi Holmes, ever the punctual riser, had woken at 9:00 a.m., and had been on her way to use the restroom when her mother had come through the door.

She closed her bedroom door until it was open just a crack, and sat listening intently to her mother's apology.

Her eyes widened in hope.

And then her brow furrowed in confusion and worry when her mother's apology was met with silence.

And the awkward moving – she knew that sound – it sounded like pacing. Mum was pacing?

And then her mother's quiet reiteration of an invitation for coffee, and the sound of her leaving.

"Oh, no," Gigi whispered. She left Lydia sleeping in their room and crept quietly down the stairs.

She saw her father, still standing beside the window, a frowning look of concentration on his face.

"Oh, Dad," Gigi whispered again, shaking her head. "Dad?" She called a bit louder.

No answer.

"Dad!" She called, and walked around the sofa to tug on his arm. "Dad?"

He patted her absentmindedly on the head, before moving to sit in his armchair, one leg propped on the other, fingers steepled.

"Not the chair, Dad!" Gigi protested, attempting to push him out of it. "Not the mind palace! You've got to make a move! You've got to answer! She practically invited you into her life again! She set it up, easy! Dad!" She tugged pleadingly on his arm, and he gently removed himself from her grip, before settling into his previous pose, completely oblivious to her protests.

Gigi huffed. "Fine. But when you get out of there, we're having a talk."

She slammed the door to the bathroom, but it did nothing to disturb her father from his deep thoughts.

* * *

_I'm sorry. _

_I'm sorry I hurt you._

_Forgive me._

From the moment Molly made her apology, Sherlock was whisked suddenly to her room in his mind palace.

It was rather like a large, empty ballroom, now, with polished wooden floors, and clean, soft walls, and dim lighting.

Images played on the walls – scenes of their time together, from the time they met, until the day Molly left, and then – from his most recent encounters with her – from the day in the hotel until this morning.

He wandered around, looking a bit lost, and very much flustered.

Possibly even shocked.

_I'm sorry I hurt you._

Had she…hurt him?

He had spent the past…ten…years…believing that _he_ was the…instigator of hurt, in the relationship. And that Molly was the…recipient.

He'd felt…so…guilty.

_And rightly so, brother dear,_ Mind Mycroft chided him with a sniff of disdain, observing the images projecting, of Sherlock on the Magnusson case. _By all societal counts, you were the liar, the adulterer, and the heartbreaker._

Sherlock frowned and shook his head again, dismissing the enigma with an irritated wave. He was aware of his mistakes, in his relationship with Molly. Painfully so. And he'd been attempting to make amends for them, in his way, for years. By supporting her from a distance, and refusing to go after her.

He'd always thought – he'd always _told_ himself – that he would not go after her, because she would be happier and better off without him.

_Had part of the reason also been that he believed he'd be better off without…her? _

He…he had been…not _unaware_…but…perhaps…_unobservant_…of Molly's mistakes.

He studied himself, in the projections on the walls, of the time when Molly left him.

It wasn't just guilt displayed on his features.

_Well, you always miss something, mmm?_ Mind John appeared suddenly, rubbing his jaw and giving Sherlock an amiable Look from beneath bushy eyebrows. _But I'm still bloody surprised you missed your own feelings._

Sherlock's frown lessened as he raised an eyebrow cockily.

_All right,_ Mind John admitted. _Not your area. I guess I can't be that surprised that you were unaware of your own feelings. I'm just surprised you suppressed them for this long. Ten years has got to be some sort of record, even for you._

_Molly always knew what I felt before I did, _Sherlock realized. _Much better than John, better than – anyone. When she left – I didn't – _

He huffed, irritated.

_Obviously it hurt._

_Obviously._

_But I thought…it was guilt? Or…missing her?_

_She hurt me._

The thought shocked him. He had never…been hurt, like that, before. Physically, he'd been hurt, of course, many times – and he'd, _hurt_, he supposed, when Redbeard died, and when the Woman betrayed him, and when Moriarty had threatened his friends – but the hurt they had caused him was much different than this hurt. Those hurts were…different. This one…

The closest hurt he could think to compare it to was when John was angry with him, after Sherlock's return. The punch in the face hadn't hurt simply physically. It had burned in his chest – the idea that he'd done all of this, all of the lying and dying and chasing and dismantling – for his friends, and that his _best_ friend's only response was to punch him soundly in the nose – that had _hurt_.

Why hadn't he made the connection before?

John had hurt him.

Molly had hurt him.

Patient, intelligent, kind Molly Hooper had _hurt_ him.

He felt that hurt open, now – those small sparks of anger and betrayal and bitterness he'd packed away, from when Molly had left him.

They appeared as smoldering coals, in his hands, burning him with their fiery weight, but not unbearably so. Not at the moment.

_What do I do with these?_ He thought – not quite panicking, and not quite calm – just – breathing – _in, and out _– and confused.

_Well_, Mind John asked thoughtfully, _what did you do with mine? You certainly didn't lock them in a box and toss them in my mind-palace room._

Sherlock blinked.

_What did I do with them?_

Mind Molly appeared beside John, looking calm and gentle and self-assured and a bit…flicker-y, from disuse. Mind John nodded and smiled, welcoming her back, and Sherlock frowned in irritation.

_Well, you held on to them, for a bit, at first,_ Mind Molly said matter-of-factly. _But…they started to burn you. So, I helped convince you to let them go._

_I - what?_

_You let them go._

Sherlock paused to consider this, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. _Where?_

Mind Molly smiled up at him, and lifted her hands. _You just…dropped them. You let them go._

Sherlock frowned. He did not remember this. _What happened to them?_ He asked.

_They…well…they died out. Stopped burning on the way to the floor. Crumbled to dust. I think you may have had Mrs. Hudson come along and hoover them up. _Mind Molly giggled a bit.

_What happens to me if I let them go?_ He asked stubbornly.

Mind Molly raised an eyebrow at him. _What happened when you let John's go?_

He frowned. _I don't remember._

She beamed at him. _Exactly. _

_What?_ Now Sherlock was becoming irritated.

_I think she's saying that you forgave me, mate, and that you forgot about the whole hurt thing. Didn't affect you much at all, except you weren't holding onto a burning thing, anymore. Apparently it wasn't the best idea, though, for you to entirely forget, because now we're in this mess, yeah? Hers – there – _Mind John nodded to the hot coals in Sherlock's hands – _are a bit bigger than mine. Might be a bit more difficult to let go_.

Sherlock frowned. They _were_ starting to burn a bit. Glow a bit redder. And yet he was still the one holding them. _Can't you take them? _He asked angrily. This was getting ridiculous.

Mind John and Mind Molly both shook their heads.

_Sorry,_ Mind Molly apologized. _I can't take them from you. It's something you have to let go of yourself. _

_But you gave them to me!_ He protested.

_I know,_ Mind Molly said gently, and she took a step toward him, watching him with wide brown eyes. _And I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sherlock. Didn't you hear me say how sorry I was?_

He stared at her. _Yes, _he answered gruffly, but his grip tightened on the embers in his hands.

_You're only hurting yourself by holding onto those,_ Mind Molly chided him gently. _Those can't hurt me. _

He scowled. He knew it was the truth.

_I meant it,_ she said quietly, patient sincerity on her face. _About being sorry. You know I meant it. You knew from the moment I left, though, that I was sorry. Maybe you didn't know that I wanted you to come after me, but you knew I was sorry._

And Sherlock realized that she was right. (Or, technically speaking – _he _was right, since this was all playing out in his mind.) He knew she was sorry. He knew it from her expressions and her tears and from…Genevieve. She'd left him Genevieve. She hadn't wanted to hurt him, and she did…she did what she could to avoid hurting him more.

That meant leaving so that he could…focus on cases. Because she believed he'd chosen them, over her.

_She left, but she chose me, too, _he realized. _She saw it as choosing herself, because she's – well - it did help her, as well, but – she left to help me, too._

_She chose me the day she left me, and she chose me yesterday – the girls, and I – she chose us, over Tom._

_And she…had been nothing but carefully kind, to him, since their reunion. She'd…defended him. To Tom. _

_She'd chosen him, from the beginning. She was still choosing him. She wouldn't have invited him to coffee if she hadn't…_

He stared at the coals in his hands, and, breathing out through his nose - tipped his palms until the sharp, hot rocks tumbled out of them.

He smiled when he realized Mind Molly had been correct. (She was always correct.)

They turned to ash by the time they reached the ground.

About the same time, his chest felt remarkably lighter.

_Forgive me?_ Mind Molly asked patiently - and she was a much more solid presence, now.

He smiled at her. _Yes. Forgive me?_

_Do you forgive yourself?_ She replied. _Considering this is you asking yourself, and all._

He thought for a moment. _Yes, _he said confidently.

She smiled at him, then. _Then I'm nearly positive I do, too. But you'll have to ask the real me to know for sure. I think I did just invite you to coffee. Perhaps there's some sort of allusion there, as well, if you care to look into it?_

He grinned at her in return. _I'm certain there is. _

Before leaving, he straightened the collar on his dressing gown, and turned.

He nearly walked into his frowning brother.

_Are you sure about this?_ Mycroft asked seriously. _That is a lot of power for one person to hold over you. What if she hurts you again? What if you hurt her again? Are you better off without each other?_

Sherlock stepped gracefully back from his brother, and answered his questions in rapid succession. _I'm quite certain there will be…issues, between us, in the future. Unavoidable fact of life. But I think we can avoid this level of misunderstanding. Molly is an intelligent woman and unlikely to repeat the same mistake – or at least the severity of it – twice. And I have certainly learned my own lesson as well. Seducing other women while in a relationship, even for a case – bad. Lying about cases – bad. Miscommunication, in general – bad. Based on our communication this past week, I'd say we've already improved in that area. I am not worried._

_And,_ he hesitated. _I've known for a while that we are…better together, than apart. _He watched his brother, unwilling to expand on that admission.

Mycroft inclined his head thoughtfully and disappeared.

Sherlock sighed in relief continued to the exit.

_Mrs. Hudson!_ he shouted cheerfully over his shoulder. _Might want to give Molly's room a cleaning. She'll be needing use of it again, shortly._

* * *

"Yes," Sherlock said, blinking and suddenly sitting forward in his armchair, eyes bright and a small smirk playing on his lips.

He frowned when he noticed Gigi sitting across from him, on the sofa – showered and dressed, her arms crossed and staring him down, like she did when she was four and he'd explained in detail why unicorns were a biological impossibility.

She was angry with him.

"Yes to what, Dad? Coffee? Or to her apology?"

"Both." Sherlock looked about the flat, and noticed its lack of occupants. At the moment, it was he and Gigi, and the silence that pervaded 221 Baker Street made his stomach sink, just a bit.

He swallowed, and his eyes darted to the door, and the window, and the kitchen table – still clean. No one had eaten up here. "How…long ago did they leave?"

Gigi gestured to the clock.

_2:18._

Sherlock let a frustrated sigh escape him. "Why..." he muttered, as he jumped up, and raced to his bedroom – "Why does time go by so infuriatingly _quickly_ when there are important matters to attend to, and so tortuously _slowly_ when nothing of importance is happening?"

He slammed his door shut, and remerged five minutes later perfectly dressed in his suit and purple shirt, patting his pockets carefully.

Gigi was standing, now, and her angry face had lessened, somewhat. "Are we…going…somewhere, then?" She asked carefully.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his daughter as he banged open a desk drawer and rifled through for their passports.

A smile began spreading across Gigi's face. "Are we going to…say…California, maybe?" She asked hopefully.

"I'd say your deductions were improving, Genevieve, but I should hope our destination would be obvious." He smiled briefly at her to lessen the sting of his words.

She grinned at him. She knew he tended to be short when he was particularly stressed or excited about something.

Her father crossed the flat to the door in a few long strides, and then paused, and pressed a fist to his lips, frowning. "Problem…flight path…schedule…layover…even with…no…hmph." He glanced at Gigi out of the corner of his eye. "Hmph," he repeated, pressing his lips together forcefully.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Genevieve," he said brightly, giving her his most winning smile. "We're at a bit of an impasse, regarding available flights. Your mother's flight leaves in…two minutes, now, and another flight does not leave until 9 p.m. tonight. I think she deserves an answer to her question as soon as possible, don't you?"

Gigi's attempt at mimicking her father's cool expression crumbled as she began grinning again. "Are you saying you want your lovely daughter to phone her uncle to see if we can borrow his private jet…say…immediately?"

"You have a…_way_ with him," Sherlock reminded her. He looked as though he'd swallowed something unpleasant. "And you know how I…prefer not talking to him."

Gigi giggled. "Yessir, yes sir!" She flew up to her room and dialed her Uncle Mycroft's number.

* * *

It wasn't the first time that day that the girls had placed an emergency call to their uncle.

After two hours had passed and their father still hadn't emerged from his mind palace – after their mother had blushed again, mumbling a strained 'good-bye' to him, before hugging the stuffing out of Gigi, and promising to Skype soon to work out a visit during their next school break – after normally unemotional Lydia had struggled to blink back tears as she said her own strained good-bye to her father (it is so awkward to say good-bye to someone who can't really hear you), and had hugged Gigi with equal vigor and bone-crushing force – after the door had shut and the cab had driven away – Gigi had rushed up the stairs, and placed a phone call to her uncle.

In the cab, Lydia sent a text to her uncle.

S.O.S. – We're leaving and Dad's…being weird. –LH

Mycroft received the text, and was about to reply, when Gigi called. He answered on the first ring.

"Genevieve," he greeted her calmly. Of course, he already knew what was going on. He'd overheard the apology. And Sherlock's lack of response. And Molly's leaving.

His brother really was an idiot, sometimes.

He sighed as Gigi gave her explanation. It was concise and to the point. Good girl.

"Mum apologized, Dad went into mind-palace shock, Mum left, and Dad's still not out of his bloody mind palace. Language, I know, sorry – but Dad and Uncle John aren't a particularly great influence, in that regard. I'm beyond being worried, at this point. This is an emergency and we need help." She waited for his answer.

Mycroft sighed again, and glanced at Anthea, whose fingers immediately began flying on her smart device.

"I am working something out. Stay with your father. I'll know when he…comes out of his…_mind palace_." He said the words with distaste. "In the meantime – wait a moment," he told his niece, as Anthea walked over to him with a screen open on her iPad. He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment and agreement, and perhaps the tiniest hint of admiration – and continued his conversation with his niece. "In the meantime, Anthea and I will…present some information to your mother that she may have been unaware of, before. It will certainly turn the tide in favor of your father. Stay with him," he repeated.

"Okay," Gigi sighed.

"And text your sister the instructions I've just given you. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister that can't be postponed again."

* * *

Lydia scanned the airport fervently. They'd checked in and made it past security, and had half an hour before their flight was scheduled to leave, which meant they had about ten minutes before they were going to board. They'd already started boarding first class and 'guests with small children or special needs'. She hadn't heard from her sister since Gigi had relayed their Uncle's (frustratingly brief) instructions to them, which meant that her father had not yet come out of his mind palace. Lydia knew to be on the lookout for Anthea, whom she'd never met – and she hoped the picture Gigi had briefly showed her stuck in her mind enough to recognize the woman. Though it shouldn't be too hard, since Anthea would also be looking for them, and apparently the woman was as good at finding people as her uncle.

_Come on, come on_, she thought, as Molly and Mary stood with their bags, making the most out of the time left to stretch before boarding a flight for ten hours. _Thirteen, with the layover_, Lydia reminded herself.

Suddenly, Lydia spotted a woman who looked vaguely familiar.

She straightened and half-waved, and the woman nodded in acknowledgment and did not slow down as she walked toward them through the crowd of people.

She gave Lydia a brief smile before getting down to business. "Molly Hooper," she stated plainly, and Molly turned, surprise on her face.

Mary gave her a sharp once-over, and waited. She knew the woman, of course – she 'reported' to her, after all.

Molly's eyebrows were still raised in surprise. "Um…Anthea?" She asked.

Anthea nodded brusquely. "I have something for you," she said, and flipped open a small pocketbook, with a standard sized envelope just barely fitting inside. It had _Dr. Molly Hooper_ penned across it in neat, concise script. She held it out, and a small smile played on her lips as she watched Molly take the envelope gingerly.

"Just some information my employer thought you should be aware of," Anthea said.

Molly stared at it for a moment, her heart sinking just a bit before placing it carefully in her purse. "Um…thank you." She had secretly been hoping that perhaps…perhaps Sherlock had awakened from his mind-palace vacation and had decided to come after her.

She snorted just a bit at the thought. _This isn't some cheesy romance film, Molly, _she chided herself.

**_All passengers seated between rows 15 and 30 are welcome to board at this time._**

Molly shifted her purse on her shoulder, and offered Anthea a hesitant smile. "Thank you," she repeated. "That's…us." She moved to gather their things and go.

Anthea nodded, and sighed. "And…Molly?" She asked.

Molly stopped and looked expectantly at the woman in front of her.

"I'd read through that as soon as possible, if I were you. It's…good." Anthea said vaguely.

Molly blinked. "Um. Okay. Thanks…"

"Good-bye, Dr. Hooper," Anthea stood straighter and seemed once again every inch the posh professional. "It was a pleasure to see you again."

She was gone before Molly could return the sentiment.

* * *

Over the Atlantic

Sherlock, Gigi, and John took off in Mycroft's personal jet roughly an hour after Molly's flight had taken off. They sat in their own thoughts for about the first half hour of their flight, and then Gigi broke the silence.

"Did _you_ apologize, Dad?" She asked quietly.

John was listening to his iPod and swiveled in his luxury seat to give them a little more privacy. He'd already had this conversation with Sherlock, several times throughout the years. Maybe his daughter could talk some sense into him, for once.

Sherlock blinked, and after a moment, refocused on his daughter. "What?" He asked.

"Did you say you were sorry?"

He studied the fancy leather bucket seats they were sitting in, and replayed his conversations with Molly in his mind. He _had_ said the words 'I'm sorry', technically. They were in reference to her ill-fated, ended engagement with Tom – but he _had_ said the words. And he'd explained his past actions. That _had_ to count for something.

"…yes?" he half-answered.

Gigi stared at him for a moment, lips pursed. "Did you say what you were sorry _for_?"

He looked at her, studying her as she was studying him. She really was far too similar to her mother. "What do you…mean?"

Gigi sighed. "Think of Mum's apology, Dad. She listed all the things she was sorry for. Yes, I was awake – I heard. And think of my apologies. I know you say I apologize too much – but think of them. Just saying 'sorry' isn't always enough, Dad. You have to-" she waved her hands through the air. "You have to let the person you hurt _know_ what you're sorry for, and that you'll try not to do it again. Like Mum did. Like I do."

Sherlock frowned and sighed, and thought of Molly's apology, and all of the 'sorries' Gigi had ever said. She did have a point.

Gigi reached over and squeezed his hand – but instead of her customary 'it's okay, Dad' – she asked him another question. "Do you love her?"

He looked at her, startled. "Yes." It really wasn't even a question, anymore. It was a fact.

"Does she love you?"

He thought about Molly's choices, and her apology, and his heart squeezed a bit when he thought of how she must have…felt…when he didn't answer her. For two hours. _Never mind that_, he told himself. _I'll make it up to her soon enough._ He patted his pocket, again.

"Yes," he answered.

"Then you should apologize for what you did wrong. It will make her feel better. And it will help her trust you again. If that's what you want."

Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly as he sat back into his leather seat to think. It was ridiculously comfortable. _No wonder Mycroft is so fat,_ he thought. _If I had these sorts of things at my disposal, I'd never walk anywhere, either._

* * *

Further Over the Atlantic

Darkness had settled over the ocean, and passengers dozed off. Mary was asleep, and Molly was attempting to sleep. Lydia was staring out the window. Molly had tried to comfort her daughter, but Lydia was having none of it. So she let her sulk thoughtfully, for the time being.

"Mum?" Lydia whispered.

Molly sighed sleepily. "Mmm?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me about the Hooper Scooper?"

Molly's eyes opened. "Wha – what?"

"The Hooper Scooper," Lydia asked, staring out the window. "The one you and your Dad made up. Why didn't you ever tell me about it?"

Molly sat up, and looked out the window. Sure enough, there was the Hooper Scooper. "How-" she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "How did you know about that?"

Lydia shrugged. "Gigi pointed it out at camp. Said you liked to make up constellations. I mean, _I_ knew that – because you and I do it – but she said one thing she knew about you was that you liked stars. Uncle John told her that, I think. And that you'd made up a constellation called the Hooper Scooper. Dad showed her that one, though, when she asked once. Only that one, and only that once. What _I_ wonder is – why didn't _you_ ever talk about it?"

Molly swallowed. _Sherlock had taught Gigi about the Hooper Scooper?_ "I…" she shook her head. "I don't have a good answer for you, Lydia. I'm sorry."

Lydia looked at her mother. "Well then – tell me about it now."

So Molly did.

After half an hour of star gazing and stories, Lydia had fallen asleep. Molly carefully covered her with a blanket, and sat back in her own seat.

She suddenly remembered a letter addressed to her in her purse.

She reached down to get it, and stared at the careful script before sliding a nail beneath the lip of the envelope and opening it.

* * *

Back to the Private Jet

John was snoring soundly, and Sherlock was thinking through potential apologies and the exact wording he would use when he faced Molly. Gigi sat beside him, drifting in and out of sleep herself, watching that ridiculous animated movie with the ice queen and the braids, again.

He'd never watched it himself, but Gigi had watched it frequently enough (and learned to play a few of the songs on her violin) that he was vaguely aware of the film.

One of her ear buds had fallen out, and he could hear the dialogue and background music. He frowned, and shook his head, attempting to ignore it.

The girl with two braids was freezing to death and a man leaned in to give her a kiss.

Predictable.

Boring.

But something…something caught his attention.

_Oh, Anna. If only there was someone out there who loved you._

Ah. So it would not be 'love's true kiss' that saved this young lady. Only marginally less boring. He seriously doubted the filmmakers would allow the young princess to die. Now _that_ would be an interesting fairytale.

_Hans…_

He blinked once, and leaned forward to listen as the so-called Prince Hans claimed he'd only been interested in Anna's kingdom, and now that she was dying and her sister could be tried for treason for killing her – it would be all his.

_Genevieve had called Tom a 'Prince Hans'. _

Sherlock frowned.

He leaned back and attempted to recall the conversation they were having at the time.

_He's… 'pretty and charming' on the outside and 'scheming and selfish' on the inside. _

Genevieve may not completely understand exactly how to support her conclusions with facts and deductions, but her instincts were usually good. _Just like her mother._ She could read people, without really understanding how.

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and went through all the relevant facts he knew about Tom in his head. The man was dull, an idiot – undeserving of Molly, but book-smart – his bio-medicine degree and experiments were legitimate – he was squeamish, and demanding, a dog lover, and –

Sherlock sat up with a start.

_Why had he wanted Molly in the first place? _

She, for one, was brilliant and decidedly _not_ squeamish. She completed the scientific part of Tom - she'd been able to do things that he was unable to do, because of his sensitive stomach.

Tom may have had a completely clean record – but his motives for being with Molly, Sherlock could see, now – were anything but clean.

Genevieve had been very astute in describing him as 'Prince Hans', apparently.

_He wanted Molly because he wanted the kingdom._

_Molly's kingdom._

_Molly's research._

He reluctantly pulled out his mobile and sent a text to his brother.

* * *

Somewhere over Pennsylvania

Molly sat staring at the compilation of letters in her trembling hands as her tears splatted on the expensive, creamy paper.

Anthea had been correct.

They were…_good_.

The first three pages were carefully compiled documentations of donations made to Queen of the Valley Medical Center by a benefactor who had chosen to remain anonymous – one Sherlock Holmes.

They were all grants that she had won, and used to complete her own research.

He had given _so much_ over the past years.

She sniffed loudly as she re-read the last page – a very short letter from Mycroft Holmes.

_Dr. Hooper,_

_ I once told you that sentiment impeded my brother's thought processes. I must admit, however, that this is the wisest investment he's ever made with his share of the family fortune. Congratulations on your achievements, and my apologies._

_ -Mycroft Holmes_

She stifled a half-sob, half-laugh as more tears flowed freely from her rapidly-blinking eyes.

* * *

A Layover in Chicago

The three women ran through the airport – they would miss their layover if they didn't get there in time – Lydia had not had a chance to check her phone, for word from Gigi, but she suspected, if they were delayed, perhaps her uncle -

- but there was no need to rush. As they reached the gate, the stewardess apologetically informed them that due to the weather, all flights were delayed for at least two hours.

Well. Mycroft certainly couldn't take credit for the weather.

At least – Lydia didn't _think_ so.

She checked her phone as the three of them collapsed into the uncomfortable plastic chairs.

_On our way. We're taking Uncle Mycroft's jet. See you soon! __J__ – GH_

Lydia grinned as she replied.

"What are you so smiley for?" Molly asked her daughter gently.

Lydia shook her head. "Nothing, Mum. Just Gigi being Gigi." _Boy, was Mum going to be surprised._

Molly nodded, smiling herself.

"What are _you_ so smiley for?" Mary asked Molly with a raised eyebrow.

Molly teared up, and Mary's smirk turned to a frown. "What's wrong?"

But Molly was still smiling. "He's a complete idiot, you know." She brushed the tears out of her eyes. "But I hope he's still _my_ complete idiot."

Mary stared at her. "I have a feeling this is going to be good. Spill, love."

And Molly did, to the delight of Lydia and Mary.

When she was done explaining the occurrences of the past day, Mary was shaking her head affectionately. "You're right. He's a complete idiot. After that evening discussion? And an apology like that? He clams up like a child with stage fright? But you do know you still deserve an apology yourself -"

"I know," Molly said defensively. "I mean – like I told you. I…opened the door. He'll have to walk through it. It's…up to him, now." She sighed.

Mary nodded her approval, and her face broke into a knowing grin again. "I hope he walks through it soon." She gave her friend a wink.

Molly smiled back, and played with the hairband around her wrist nervously. "Me too," she said. "Me too."

Lydia just grinned, and bounced, and kept her mouth shut.

* * *

Somewhere over Utah

Sherlock received the texts from his brother roughly an hour before they were to arrive in Sacramento.

_Your inquiry has proven fruitful. He just arrived at the hospital. –MH_

_Does not seem to be in a hurry. Transferring documents onto a flash drive and shredding files. –MH_

_Should still be there when you arrive. Shall I arrange transport? – MH_

Sherlock paused before replying.

Molly's ETA? – SH

_ She is still two hours behind you. Over Nebraska, at the moment. Never fear. –MH_

Sherlock did not even bother to argue or make a sarcastic remark.

Yes to the transport, then. – SH

* * *

Queen of the Valley Medical Center

Napa Valley, California

Tom wasn't exactly sure when he decided to steal Molly Hooper's research.

It may have been when she introduced him to her absolute brat of a daughter.

It may have been when she introduced him to her ex-husband and _other_, even bigger, brat of a daughter.

It may have been when she defended her ex-husband and daughters at every opportunity.

It may have been when he'd had the _worst _time attempting to leave London. Apparently, Heathrow had received an anonymous tip that someone matching his description was threatening the airport. He'd spent _hours_ being prodded and searched and examined.

His ticket had been bumped down a class. He sat next to a screaming, colicky, vomiting baby for the eleven-hour flight.

Whatever the reason, he'd realized that his perfect lab partner was gone, and that it would take _forever_ to find one as accommodating as her.

His career didn't have time for that.

So he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Surely he deserved a little something for all his troubles, this past week?

So he waltzed into the lab – everyone knew him; no one would suspect – and he began transferring all of Dr. Hooper's current research projects onto a flash drive, and began shredding all of the hard copies and documentation.

He really was in a sort of blind rage, and he found a mad sort of glee in hearing the crunch and whine of the industrial paper shredder destroy his ex-fiancée's work.

He didn't notice until it was too late that someone had come in behind him.

"Bit busy at the moment," he said haughtily. The trick was to appear like you were in charge – doing the right thing –

"Yes, and I suspect it will be the last time you are a 'bit busy' for a long time."

Tom froze. He _knew_ that insufferable, annoying baritone – but – what – how - ?

He spun around, intending to confront the man who'd caused him to loose his ticket to scientific stardom, but never got the chance.

Apparently Sherlock Holmes had a mean right hook.

* * *

Molly's House

Napa Valley, California

The airport cab dropped the three women off, and they stood looking tiredly up at the window in the early evening sun.

Suddenly, Mary squinted, and frowned. "Stay here," she said shortly.

"What?" Molly asked. "What's wrong?"

"Just stay here," Mary commanded, and walked cautiously to the door. She unlocked the door, and closed it behind her. After a few minutes that seemed to drag on, with Molly and Lydia exchanging concerned glances – Mary re-opened the door.

She was grinning.

"It's all good," she announced. "Come on in, ladies."

Molly shrugged, and she and Lydia carried their luggage in the front door.

Surprisingly, Lydia offered to carry their luggage upstairs. "I've got it, Mum," she announced grandly, and was off before Molly could even say 'thank you'.

Molly sighed and shook her head. "I'm tired," she yawned, as if to accentuate her point. "I think I'm going to check on Toby, make sure our neighbor took good care of him – and then shower and sleep."

Mary nodded, her face carefully crafted to convey sympathy and understanding. "Good idea. I'll take the first shower, if it's all right with you. I think I saw Toby scoot into the study as I was making my rounds earlier."

Molly nodded, and frowned. "Why _did_ you make your rounds earlier?"

Mary shrugged. "Just thought I saw something. Guess I was wrong. Can never be too careful, you know. It is my job." She smiled sassily at her friend.

Molly rolled her eyes, stretched, and sighed. "Right. I'll go check on Toby then."

"Sounds good." Mary nodded, and escaped up the stairs.

* * *

Molly padded softly into the room. "Toby," she called softly. "Where are you, my little old man?"

She almost had a heart attack when she spotted him rubbing against the legs of Sherlock Holmes.

He was staring out her back window – _what was with that man and staring moodily out of windows_ – and he turned when he heard her gasp.

Her hand was pressed over her heart and she was nearly bursting over with shock and questions – _How'd he get here so fast? How'd he get in? No – stupid question – how – why – he's – here – he's – here?!_

And then he was talking. "You left before I had a chance to reply," he said, and it sounded almost petulant.

She snorted. There was that free-falling feeling, again – but this time, she wasn't sure if she wanted to land. "I waited two hours, Sherlock," she retorted. _But I'd wait years…oh wait. I did. _

She nearly snorted at herself, this time. Apparently pure, unadulterated joy and anxious expectation made her sassier. At least in her mind.

He raised an eyebrow at her, and a smile played about his lips as he turned to full face her. "Well, I've been waiting ten years to tell you this, though its apparently taken me an equally long amount of time to realize it, and I have accumulated a ridiculous amount of debt to my brother in order to get here, so please – don't interrupt again."

She raised her own eyebrow at him, and her own smile wavered as she waited for him to continue with barely suppressed hope in her chest and on her face.

"I wanted to tell you that I accept your apology, and I forgive you," he said seriously.

There was silence for a moment, and she thought that she might just slap him again if that was all he had to say. She blinked.

But he wasn't done yet. He rubbed the back of his neck, and studied a print on the wall to her right. "And…I'm sorry." He took a deep breath, and continued. "I am sorry that I relapsed in an effort to protect you. I realize now how foolish that was, because it hurt the person I was attempting to protect. It was illogical and inexcusable. I apologize."

He darted a glance at her – wide eyed and flushed and mouth parted, just a bit.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry I lied and went behind your back with…with…Janine. It meant nothing to me – I despised being with her – and I apologize, again, for…failing to discuss the case with you." He sighed, and clasped his hands behind his back.

He leveled a serious gaze at her, and she felt herself blush. He began to pace. "I promise you, Molly Hooper, that in the past ten years, I have never intentionally seduced any man or woman since that case. And I promise that I will never intentionally seduce anyone – for a case or otherwise – again. It's entirely too messy and time-consuming and inefficient. And it hurt you," he said.

And Molly couldn't help but interrupt. Really, it may have been the shock talking. "You'll never _intentionally _seduce anyone?" She asked.

He frowned, but then noted the almost teasing, incredulous tone of her voice and flashed her a confident grin. "I claim no credit for the affect my mere physical presence has on the masses."

She laughed, and he smiled before his face fell into seriousness again. "But seriously, Molly. No more interruptions." He began pacing again, and she bit her lip as she watched him.

He was _nervous_.

She felt like she just may explode if he didn't come out with it, already. But still – his apologies were lifting her heart, and he really did need to apologize, and he was entirely endearing, and she patiently waited for him to finish.

"Again," he said gruffly, after a moment. "I am sorry. I am sorry that I wounded you, and lied, and failed to discuss cases with you. I am sorry I allowed you to believe that I chose cases over you. I am sorry that I told you to leave. And I am sorry," he said, his voice hoarse – "I am sorry that you listened. And I am sorry that I did not come after you. And I am sorry that it took me this long to apologize. Forgive me."

He was standing in front of her now, within her reach, hands in his pockets. He held her wide-eyed gaze with a searching one of his own. She nodded numbly.

"In short," he continued softly, "I accept your apology, and respond with my own. I will also accept your invitation to coffee, on one condition."

Molly swallowed, her smile wavering on her lips and tears pricking her eyes. "And what is that?" She asked, just as softly.

He pulled one hand out of his pocket, and held it between them. "That we have it at Baker Street. Every morning."

He opened his hand, and there – in his palm – were their wedding rings – the ones she'd left on her nightstand ten years ago.

Her hands flew to her mouth and she choked back a sob. "You – you – saved them?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Sentimental, I know," he said, apologetically, and she almost laughed again, but he continued before she could interrupt. "And John did inform me that this is all a bit…forward, jumping from an invitation to coffee to a proposal, but you should know that I've already made some predictions about where this is all going to end up, anyway. Best to save time. And you should know…I've always chosen you, Molly Hooper. I never stopped choosing you. And really, if…" he shifted uncomfortably, the rings still on display in his palm. "…if you'd humor me…I'd like you to…visualize that you're five weeks out from having twins, and exhausted from moving around the world, and upset, and pining for me, and that this is me, seven weeks out from defeating a Greek mob boss in your defense and leaving you with no explanation and telling you to leave-" he took a short breath – "this is me, chasing after you, and pleading my case. Because what I told you eleven years ago has not changed. I do…love you. And I still believe I am one of the people who love you most in the world. I have never stopped loving you, though I tried, and I have never stopped choosing you. So I forgive you, and I am asking you to forgive me, and to come back home. Because I can tell you miss it. And we…I…miss you. I also realize we will have some logistics to work out, as far as your job, and some matters to discuss and work through, but I am…open to discussion, in that regard. So…come home. Please."

His words were calm and matter of fact, but he looked at her, with wild, dark eyes and swallowed when he realized that she had been silently crying for the duration of his little speech. The rings suddenly felt very heavy in his hand.

She could practically see the pulse throbbing in his neck.

Sniffling loudly and brushing her tears away with her hands, she took his hand in hers, and gently took the rings from him. She released his hand, and it fell to his side, and he watched her intently.

She was smiling down at the rings in her hand. "Sherlock," she said softly, "This is me, accepting your apology, and telling you" – she sniffed again, and another tear leaked out and rolled down her cheek – "and telling you that I never stopped loving you, either. I never stopped choosing you, even though…you know. I guess I was just - I'm-" she laughed shakily. "I'm not as good with pretty words or long speeches," she said. "but yes – I – forgive you – I forgave you a long – time ago - and – I love you – I _love_ you - and – c-coffee at Baker Street – every morning – sounds – lovely." Her words were punctuated with small sniffs and hiccups and a monumental effort not to cry.

It started out small – Sherlock's smile. And really, by normal standards – it ended small, as well. But that look of happiness spread over his face and reached his eyes and Molly could practically see a shadow lift off of his face.

She smiled up at him, weeping softly but trying not to, still gripping the rings tightly in her hand. He reached up, and gently wiped her tears away with the pads of his thumbs.

She leaned minutely into his touch, and brought up her hands to rest on his chest. One hand held tightly to the rings, and the other gently stroked the purple fabric of his shirt.

And then he could not stand the distance any longer, and he grinned, and swept her up, and her arms automatically circled around his neck, her free hand clutching his shirt and her face buried into the crook of his neck.

He spun her around once, and pressed a kiss to her neck, and then to her cheek, and it was like the two of them were _home_. A long-bleeding wound had finally stopped. A weight was lifted. Their free-fall had ended, and both feet were safely on the ground. He set her down after just a moment, but she did not release her grip from around his neck. He stooped, just a bit, to accommodate her – just as unwilling to break contact as she was.

_He'd waited so long to touch her._

She stared up at him through wet lashes and gently stroked the soft curls at the nape of his neck with her free hand, and pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes.

He closed the distance and kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweet spearmint on her breath from the gum she'd had on the way home, and she returned the kiss – gentle and firm and thrilled and taking the time to know him again.

A loud sniff that was decidedly not Molly's interrupted them. They shared a secret smile with each other, and he pressed one more kiss to her lips before they broke apart, though his hand remained on the small of her back and her shoulder brushed against his side.

John was blinking rapidly and pinching the bridge of his nose, and Mary was beaming, and Gigi was crying, and Lydia was bouncing.

After a moment of staring and smiling, Lydia broke out a fist pump. "Gigi-" she practically crowed – "Gigi – WE DID IT!"

And Gigi grinned through her tears and wrapped her sister in a hug, before Molly opened her arms and both girls nearly mowed their parents down as they joined them in the first family hug they'd ever experienced.

Somewhere in there, Mary's hand found John's. He squeezed her hand and smiled proudly at the scene before them.

After a moment, however, both Sherlock and Lydia pulled away. Lydia continued bouncing just a bit. "Well, enough of that," she said, wriggling out of her mother and Gigi's grasp.

She turned to her father. "Not you, though. You have ten years of kissing to make up for. And hugging. Just…try not to do it all in front of us, all the time. Okay? Just a few nice little ones like that."

Molly laughed. "I don't think we have to worry about that." She gave him a smug smirk, and Sherlock returned it with one of his own, before raising his eyebrow and grabbing her, throwing her off-balance and forcing her to fall slightly backwards into his arms.

He bestowed a rather passionate kiss on her, and the girls screeched, and after a moment – Molly became quite comfortable, despite her awkward positioning – after a moment, Gigi was blushing and Lydia told them firmly that "That's enough, now!"

"So…" Molly breathed, as Sherlock returned her to a standing position. "How – how did you all manage to get here before us? Was it – Mycroft?"

All of a sudden, Gigi and John gave each other a stricken glance. "Oh no!" Gigi exclaimed. "I'd forgotten about Tom!"

Molly frowned, and Sherlock studied the ceiling innocently. His smirk, however, was anything but innocent. "What about Tom?" She asked.

"Well…he's…uh…currently in your garage, handcuffed to Mary's jeep." Gigi explained.

"I'd better check on him," John apologized. "He was out cold when we brought him in here. Should be waking up, soon."

Seeing Molly's shocked look, he hastened to reassure her. "Not a concussion – he'll be fine. I wouldn't have allowed him to stay in there if it would have caused him any harm. Though he certainly deserves it." He frowned, and excused himself.

"Explain," Molly said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Gigi beat her father to it. She was beaming, now. "Dad realized that Tom was a _real _Prince Hans and he was stealing your research and Uncle Mycroft confirmed that that was what he was doing and so we made a quick pit stop because we knew you were two hours behind us and we caught him in the act and Dad punched him right in the nose! Like an action film! Just strode right up to him and – _pow_!" Gigi demonstrated gleefully, and giggled.

Molly's mouth dropped open.

Sherlock sighed. "He was stealing your research," he grumbled. "But we managed to save most of it. Mycroft's people will be picking him up shortly. He'll have to be tried here, in the States, of course, but my brother has…connections, here, as well." He looked up and flashed her a winning grin.

Molly stared at her crazy, crazy family for another moment before bursting into laughter.

* * *

Across the ocean, Anthea and Mycroft were preoccupied with the happenings in a small townhouse in Napa Valley, California.

When Molly accepted Sherlock's apology – and when they expressed their devotion to each other in no uncertain terms – Anthea let out a very uncharacteristic, unlady-like whoop and threw her arms around the man standing beside her in a victory embrace.

They both froze, and Anthea quickly extricated herself from said man and straightened her blouse and skirt. She studied him from the corner of her eye. "Apologies, sir," she said, and cursed herself for blushing, just a bit.

But he was - was he turning a bit pink around the ears as well?

She smirked.

He blinked and cleared his throat.

"Well," he mumbled, mostly to himself. "That…happened."

He shook his head, once, and then, before he could say anything else, Anthea went straight back to business. "Morocco is requesting aid again. Shall I schedule a meeting with the ambassador, now that this whole mess is taken care of?" She gestured to the screen before them, where Molly was now bursting out laughing.

"Yes," Mycroft said quickly, and gave her a tight smile in relief.

* * *

**SO THAT HAPPENED GUYS.**

**The whole Sherlock funding Molly's research idea was OpalSkyLoveDivine's idea. I thought it was brilliant.**

**And. Ahem. The title of this chapter is indeed a nod to that fabulous 90s Mary Kate and Ashley/Kirstie Alley switch movie by the same name. Couldn't resist. **

**Also, if you have never heard of 'For King and Country' or listened to their music, I highly suggest you look them up. Especially "People Change". Because it's dramatic and I love it. You might love it too.**

**Arcoiris - Thanks! :) I'm always glad to hear it and thank you! I'm glad it works!  
**

**Black Night - Oh, you're the ACD buff! I knew someone here was but couldn't remember who. :) Thanks for bringing my memory on the Milverton case up to speed. :) Glad you liked the Anderson part - I had to add him in there. Season 3 Anderson is just so amazingly fun. :)**

**Mickeydawn95-Always love to hear that I made someone grin! :) And I hope you enjoyed Tom's punch to the face. It was very satisfying to write. And I'm perfectly okay with doge. Haha! :)**

**Guests - Thank you! And guest who referenced the Sand Lot - you're on my Awesome List. For - Ev - Er. :)**

**All right guys. I also know some parts may have stretched reality (and the characters) a bit. But I hoped you liked it, nevertheless. Those two needed to kiss and make up, already.**

**One more happy cheesy fluffy montage chapter left to go. :)**

**Please review if you have the time. You all are awesome.**


	13. Hook, Line, and Sinker

**Okay guys. This is it. The end.**

***sniffs ***

**And I tried to keep it believably delightfully montage-y cheesy. However, you may still need a few crackers to balance this one out. ;) Triscuits, or Wheat Thins, perhaps? (And now I'm hungry...)  
**

**And, despite my ridiculously massive enjoyment of all of the following things, I own none of them: Sherlock, the Parent Trap, or any songs referenced.**

**Thanks to OpalSkyLoveDivine for being wonderful.**

******I'll just stop talking now and let you read. After one more comment. : )**

**Thank you for this marvelous journey, and for all of the amazingly helpful and sweet reviews. They really have made writing so much more enjoyable. So thank you!**

* * *

Chapter 13: Hook, Line, and Sinker

_"Come to me, my sweetest friend -_

_This is where we start again."_

- The Goo Goo Dolls, "Come to Me"

* * *

_Several rather unremarkable fliers are posted in Napa Valley's library, all depicting various summer camps and all clamoring for the attention of the parents and children that visit to exchange books or attend the library's various programs. _

_This week is Spring Science Week, and among the mass of children, a single child is extremely noticeable. She is tall for her age, and appears to be just shy of slightly too old for the children's science program. She has dark, shoulder-length hair, and bright hazel eyes, and is the only child in the library wearing a lab coat and goggles. _

_The goggles have been pushed onto her head, and she is seriously studying the bulletin board where the unremarkable camp fliers are on display. She frowns at each of them in turn, because none of them are science camps. _

_A woman – middle-aged, with brown hair in a sleek ponytail, khakis, old, worn sneakers, and a very bright green top – comes up behind her. "Anything good this week?" She asks._

_The girl pulls a face. "No science camps, Mum."_

_The woman smiles. "Well, you went to a science camp last year. And the year before. And you're at this one, here, now. Why don't you try something different this year?"_

_"Do I have to?" The girl says, just barely keeping her voice from a whine._

_"Mmm, yes. Besides, you'll get to spend time with me at work when you get back, remember?"_

_The girl sighs. _

_"What about this one?" The mother asks, pointing to a camp in Colorado._

_The girl shrugs dramatically._

_"Or this one?" The mother points to one close by, in California._

_The girl wrinkles her nose. _

_"Fine, then. You choose. But you have to choose today, because we'll have to start researching and filling out forms and you only have a few months left before you'll actually be at camp. So choose."_

_"Fine," the girls says, resigned. She studies the posters for another moment, and looks at a few brochures on the small table in front of the bulletin board, and five minutes later, she announces with very little enthusiasm – "I guess this one works."_

_The mother comes back over to her daughter, and flips through the brochure herself. "Camp Walden for Girls – Virginia. That's a long way away, Lydia."_

_"I know. I've never been to the East Coast." The girl gives her mother a huge grin, which the mother returns after a moment._

_"All right, Lydia. We'll see what we can do."_

* * *

_Lydia Hooper is registered for camp by mid-March._

_A certain woman employed as personal assistant to a certain man who may or may not have a minor position in the British Government notices._

_The papers for camp have not come in yet, but she overhears Molly and Lydia discussing it at Molly's place of work, one day. The hijacked hospital surveillance systems are one of the very few places where the life of Molly Hooper can be overheard, since Mary Morstan removed most of the bugs from Molly's place of residence long ago._

_The certain woman who is monitoring the hospital surveillance sits back in her leather office chair, and taps her desk with one perfectly manicured fingernail, and narrows her eyes as she thinks._

_One minute later, she makes her decision._

_And then she places a phone call. _

* * *

_Thousands of brochures advertising Camp Walden are mailed from the camp itself on March 19__th__. _

_They make their way faithfully through the United States Postal Service, traveling to Alexandria, and then to Washington, D.C., and then to Boston, before being loaded by a rotund woman with frizzy hair onto a plane bound for London._

_When they arrive, the brochures are placed in a sorting center. They are separated and organized by a young man new to the job with a slight twitch in his left hand. The brochure addressed to 221 Baker Street is almost dropped into wrong sorting bin, and it balances precariously on the edge between the bins for Marylebone and Mayfair, but at the exact right moment the young man accidentally hits the bin with his hip, and it falls into the London: Marylebone bin. _

_The mail bound for Marylebone district is sent out on March 26__th__, and is picked up by a middle-aged mail carrier with red-blonde hair. _

_The brochure addressed to 221 Baker Street arrives on March 27__th__. An older woman with gray hair and a plethora of nervous energy accepts the post containing the brochure with thanks and a comment on the weather. The red-blonde middle-aged mail carrier chats with her for a moment, and then continues on his way._

_The woman takes the mail into her flat, and sorts it according to recipient. She decides the Camp Walden brochure is meant for 221 B, and places it in that particular stack, and carries it up the stairs and places it on the coffee table, since the kitchen table is currently occupied with the remnants of an experiment that looks highly suspicious to her. She sighs at the sight on the kitchen table, and makes a note to tell her tenants to clean it up properly later. Her tenants are out for the day – one at a doctors' office, one at school, and one out who-knows-where. _

_The man out who-knows-where returns first. He is tall, with dark curls and startling blue eyes. He does not see the mail on the coffee table. Or if he does, he ignores it. It's not his area. He goes about making an even bigger mess of the kitchen table._

_The school-goer returns next. She is a young girl – tall for her age, and has long, glossy dark hair that reaches nearly to her waist, and hazel eyes. _

_She, too, ignores the mail. She greets the man with the blue eyes with a kiss and a comment about the state of the kitchen table, and he replies that they're due for a night of take-away anyway. She grins and retreats up the stairs…presumably to do her homework. _

_The doctor, a sturdy, short man with blonde hair returns last, and he has grocery bags and take-away, and he arrives to see the tall man and the young girl playing a duet in the sitting room. He pauses for a moment in the doorway, smiling in appreciation at the scene before him, before he notices the state of the kitchen table. _

_His smile turns into a dark frown, and he immediately interrupts the lovely, mournful sounds of the violins to ask what the bloody hell the man with the blue eyes was thinking._

_And so begins an evening of affectionate sarcasm, and sharing of food, and of ignoring the small stack of letters and other mail left on the coffee table. _

_The brochure sits on the coffee table for two days, undisturbed and unnoticed._

_Two days later, the doctor is back in the flat, and he is shouting at the man with the blue eyes to pay his bloody electric bill. He begins searching through the pile of papers and mail on the coffee table, and, with a flourish, pulls out said bill. As he does, the Camp Walden brochure falls to the ground near the couch. The men ignore it as they pull their coats on and make their way out the door – the doctor frustrated, the man with the blue eyes mildly amused._

_Later that day, the girl arrives home from school, and the older woman has fixed her some tea. They sit on the couch, sipping the tea and eating biscuits, and the girl, studying her shoes with mild embarrassment as the older woman goes on about how she loves hearing the girl play the violin with her father – the girl notices the brochure on the floor. Eager to change the subject, she picks it up and begins to flip through it._

_"What is that, dear?" The older woman asks._

_"It's a brochure. For a girls' camp," the girl replies. _

_"Hmm, let's see it then. You haven't decided on a camp yet, have you, Gigi?" _

_"No," the girl shakes her head._

_The two ladies study the brochure._

_When the two men arrive home later that evening, the girl announces that she's decided where she wants to attend summer camp, this year. _

_She presents the brochure, and the research she did earlier about the camp, and stares at the tall man with blue eyes. "Please, Dad?" She asks. "I went to a science camp last year. May I please go to Camp Walden this year?" _

_He looks over the brochure with mild distaste, and shrugs his approval. _

_A barely suppressed smile plays about his lips when the girl throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek soundly. _

* * *

_Weeks later, near mid-April, the certain woman employed as personal assistant to the certain man known in some very small, very private circles as The British Government – the woman known as Anthea - receives two identical packets of forms for Camp Walden – one for Lydia Hooper, and one for Genevieve Holmes. _

_When the papers come in, Anthea grins._

_Later, as she tells her employer to 'sign here', he eyes her over the paperwork._

_"Anthea," he says evenly. "Were you aware that both my dear younger brother and Dr. Hooper chose the same summer camp for Genevieve and Lydia this year?"_

_She smirks at him, because she knows he knows about the phone call she made to Camp Walden, encouraging them to broaden their target audience to include international campers. And he knows she knows he knows. "Well aware, sir," she replies. _

_They hold each other's gaze for a moment, in a smirking sort of stand-off, before the man sighs and hands the packets back to her. "You are, without a doubt, one of the most manipulative and calculating women I have ever met." It sounds like he means it as a compliment._

_She throws him a serious glance over her shoulder as she leaves, but there is a smile in her eyes. "I have learned from the best, sir," she replies. _

* * *

Present Day

London, England

"Where are my shoes?!" Genevieve Holmes wailed, frantically digging through the haphazard pile of footwear in her (now her and _Lydia's_) closet.

"Your _what?!_" Lydia shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

"MY SHOES!" Gigi yelled. In a very un-Gigi like move, she began digging through the pile and flinging shoes over her shoulder as she searched, adding to the mess in the room.

Most of the time, she adored the new additions to her family, but sharing a room with Lydia was far from easy.

Oh, Gigi still kept her half of the room nice and tidy and perfectly organized.

But she'd only been sharing with Lydia for three weeks, and it felt like _years_.

It was like they were the young twin tween versions of 'The Odd Couple'.

It was almost comical – in fact, patient and loving Gigi would normally say it _was_ comical. It was like an invisible line was drawn down half of their room – Gigi's half contained a perfectly organized bookshelf, a neat desk with a dictionary and tidy piles of sheet music and a little pencil holder lined up on top, a perfectly made bed, and a clean floor.

She'd only finished unpacking two and half weeks ago, but Lydia's half already contained a bed that only occasionally had the sheets and blanket carelessly pulled up near the pillow, and a bookcase crammed so full of books, CDs, DVDs, and little trinkets and fossils and papers that it looked like it would explode or collapse at any moment. Her desk was similarly strewn with diagrams and papers and remnants of different (safe) experiments, and her telescope was pushed to one corner of the desk with her lab coat and goggles hung precariously over the side.

And the floor - well.

You couldn't even see that there was one.

Lydia's clothes were _everywhere_.

Usually, Gigi attempted to place the dirty ones in a pile and at least cram the clean ones back into the closet they shared, but it only took a day or two for the clothes to be spread over the floor again.

Only Lydia's half of the floor, though. Lydia was at least thoughtful of the fact that she shouldn't muss up _Gigi's_ side of the room.

Gigi never seemed to be able to keep the closet clean, though.

It was just impossible.

Hence, her frantic searching for the little black dress shoes her Mum and Mary had bought specially for her practice performance with the London Symphony Orchestra.

She was dressed in the special, demure, grown-up black dress they'd bought her, as well, and her hair had been done up quite nicely by Mrs. Hudson. (Apparently part of the older woman's life history meant she was quite good at doing hair.)

But she couldn't find her _shoes_.

She sat back on her heels and let out a frustrated little yelp of annoyance.

"Oh, your _shoes_?" Lydia asked, coming in behind her. "Why didn't you say so?"

Lydia moved through the 'organized chaos' of her side of the room, and within seconds had moved a small pile of clothing and model of the human eye, and lo and behold – there were the shoes.

Gigi let out a frustrated sigh. "Thank you," she said.

Lydia flashed her a grin, tugging, slightly uncomfortable, on the hem of her own dress she'd received (and was forced to wear) for the occasion. "No problem. I told you, I know where everything is in here. Organized chaos."

After slipping on the shoes, Gigi gave her sister a nervous smile of her own. "I know. Thanks again."

She bit her lip.

Lydia punched her lightly in the shoulder. "Hey, Gigi. It's okay. You're going to do great. We'll all be there cheering for you."

Gigi looked slightly mortified. "You don't _cheer _at the symphony, Lydia. You _applaud._ You know that, right?" She could imagine her sister standing on the seat, whistling and screaming her name. She blushed at the thought.

Lydia laughed. "Of course I know that. That was a joke. A _joke,_ Gigi. Tryin' to lighten the mood a bit, here."

Gigi gave her a weak smile. "Right."

Lydia looked at the digital clock on the nightstand the girls shared. "We've got to go. Mum said she'd meet us there from the airport."

Gigi took a deep breath. "Right." She nodded. "Right. I can do this. I can…do this."

Lydia gave her another bump on the shoulder. "Of course you can. You're a Holmes. _And_ a Hooper. You can do anything."

Gigi let out a long breath and smiled. "That's right. After our parent trap? This should be a - a cinch."

Lydia nodded, and took her sister's arm. They made their way down the flights of stairs, where their uncle and father were waiting for them with a cab and Gigi's violin.

* * *

Changing into attire suitable for your daughter's first practice performance with the London Symphony Orchestra in an airport washroom is not a pleasant or an easy feat, but Molly Hooper (soon to once again be Molly Hooper-Holmes) managed it.

Barely.

"Stupid pantyhose," she grumbled. She hated the way the toes of the nylons didn't sit just right on her feet. And then they bunched up at the ankles. And then she had to even them out. It was entirely uncomfortable.

Thank goodness Mary was there to zip up her yellow dress.

As Sherlock had promised, the two of them had discussed Molly's position in California, and the timeline for her and Lydia moving back to London. After an awkward start (both were carefully hesitant to have a lively debate, still basking in the relief of being together again after a long separation), they soon settled in on an easy cadence in their discussion and reached the agreement that Molly would spend a month organizing her research and training her replacement in Napa Valley before moving back to London. Mycroft had arranged for her to work at Bart's again – not that she needed his help to get a position there, he just sped the process up a bit - three days a week in research, two days in the morgue, if she was needed there. (_"Because I really do enjoy working there, too, most of the time,"_ – Molly had insisted.) In the meantime, Lydia would move to Baker Street so that she would be prepared for the start of school. Molly had spent the past three weeks flying back and forth from California to London on the weekends, and she was truly looking forward to finishing her last week in California and being home for good.

_"You are…planning on…moving in…with Genevieve and I." Sherlock had said it as a statement, but there had been a question in his glance. They'd been sitting on the sofa in her living room, everyone else having long since gone to bed._

_"Oh – of – of course," Molly had replied. "Isn't…wasn't that implied when you asked me to…marry you again?" _

_"Well, of course," he'd replied. "But I wasn't sure if you'd be…comfortable. Sharing things yet." He'd studiously avoided her gaze, his expression neutral, but at that last comment, his eyes darted over her face, and down - and the way they'd lingered on her -  
_

_She'd blushed. "Oh." She'd thought about it for a moment. "Are you…comfortable…sharing things yet?"_

_He'd given her a look that could only be described as completely skeptical. "Molly Hooper. I thought I'd made my…desires perfectly obvious by my rather public display of affection earlier this evening."_

_Molly had blushed for the second time in the span of three minutes, and returned his look with what she hoped was a skeptical one of her own. "And I didn't?"_

_His mouth tugged up at one corner in that way that made her want to kiss him there. "Indeed you did, Molly, if your pupil dilation and increased heart and respiration rates were anything to go by."_

_"Still," Molly continued. "It's…extremely…thoughtful…of you to ask. And really…it is best to take this all in…in its own time." _

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow. " 'In its own time'?"_

_"Just means…not…terribly slowly…and not rushing…but…well, we've got a month before I'm…with you all full time, in London. I'll stay with you all on a weekend, occasionally, and…we'll just…let things…happen. Naturally."_

_"Is there an 'unnatural' way to go about this?"_

_Molly laughed, and poked him affectionately in the shoulder. "I think just about everything in our lives, our family, and our relationship, could be considered a bit 'unnatural.'" She was teasing him again. "Though I really wouldn't have it any other way."_

_He smiled, and a moment later he was pulling her onto his lap and holding her, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on her head and breathing in the scent of her and reveling in the feel of her. He just held her, completely still, feeling his heart beat against her._

_After a moment, she wrapped her arms around his torso, and shifted so that her legs rested across his and her cheek was on his shoulder. "I missed you too," she whispered._

_He kissed her forehead and hummed a noncommittal sort of agreement._

_An hour later, details about the move to London decided, Molly had fallen asleep, exhausted from a day full of travel and emotional highs. She had stretched out on her side on the couch, her head on a throw pillow on Sherlock's thigh, one hand under her cheek and the other hand curled around his knee. _

_He stroked her hair absent-mindedly as he listened to the sound of her deep, even breaths, content just to be near her, for the time being._

_When Molly woke the next morning, Sherlock's legs were propped on the footrest and one hand was resting on her side as he slept.  
_

_Everything about it felt perfectly natural._

_She noticed with a start, as she gently sat up, that he was wearing his wedding ring.  
_

_He'd stirred, and noticed her noticing. "If it's all right with you," he said, "I think this time around I'd like to try wearing it myself."  
_

It was definitely, completely all right with her.

And since then, he'd only removed it when necessary for safety reasons in the lab.

Molly smiled as she recalled the flurry of activity that had occurred since that evening – making arrangements for moving back to London (though that was fairly easy, with Mycroft involved. Especially if his nieces were the ones to request help from him) and making arrangements at her place of employment in California, and making arrangements for her work at Bart's, again. She'd been back to London twice in the past three weeks, and this third time was a special trip for Gigi.

She had promised Gigi she would be there for her debut with the London Symphony Orchestra and had made the trip a day early this week to hear her daughter play.

It certainly helped, sometimes, to have Mycroft Holmes as a relation.

"Ready?" Mary called to her friend, interrupting her musings.

"As I'll ever be, with these stupid pantyhose," Molly replied, adjusting them once more before they exited the airport bathroom. "Let's get to my daughter's concert."

* * *

Molly and Mary arrived with ten minutes to spare. They slid into the seats reserved for them – John and Mary together, and Sherlock and Molly together, with Lydia in between.

Molly and Mary greeted Lydia with a quick peck.

Mary gave John kiss before sitting gracefully beside him and talking quietly about how the girls had been adjusting and what he'd been up to in the week since she'd seen him last.

Mary had insisted on moving back to London with Molly and Lydia. ("Watching after you lot were my orders, after all. And last I checked, those orders haven't changed. Besides…company's gotten a lot more…_attractive_ these past few months.") She'd hunted for a flat of her own two blocks from Baker Street, but when Mrs. Hudson had heard of it, she'd protested mightily. ("Nonsense! Complete nonsense, dear! You can have use of my spare bedroom, and then when John works up the nerve to ask you to move in with him or marry him, you can just move your things downstairs." Mary had liked the woman's audacity, and had agreed to the plan. Hadn't quite reached fruition yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time.)

Molly settled in beside Sherlock, opting against a blatantly public display of affection in this particular instance. While he may have never had qualms about snogging her senseless at Bart's or at crime scenes in the past, even then, it was usually in the presence of very few witnesses (if any), and there were quite a few people here – parents and family and community members interested in the ten children who had won the chance to practice with the London Symphony Orchestra. She could tell he was slightly on edge about his daughter's performance, and so instead of a kiss, she surreptitiously slid her hand into his and gave it a small squeeze as she sat beside him.

His eyes shifted to meet hers, and he held firmly to her hand as she moved to pull it away.

She smiled at him, pleased that he wanted to keep her close.

"She'll do fine, Sherlock," Molly whispered encouragingly as they waited for the performance to begin.

He squeezed her hand in response, brushing his thumb lightly over her finger, and she shivered at the gentleness of his touch.

His words, though, were not quite as gentle. "She'll do more than _fine,_ Molly. She's exceptional."

Molly gave him a Look. "I know she's exceptional, Sherlock." Her words _were_ gentle. "She's our daughter. It was a figure of speech meant to comfort you."

His lips twitched a bit. "Right."

Not a second later, Lydia reached over her mother and tapped her father on the knee. "Dad," she whispered.

"Mmm?" He raised his eyebrow.

"_Sorry_." She gave him a meaningful look of her own.

"For what?" He asked.

"No, not me. I mean – _you_. Say sorry. When you snap at someone. If I have to do it, you do too. Remember?"

"Your mother knows-"

"_Say it._ If I have to, you have to."

Sherlock snorted, but after a moment, he did mumble a gruff "Sorry."

Molly had to try very hard not to laugh as the conductor walked onto the stage.

* * *

Later that evening, after bouquets had been given and ice cream had been eaten and Gigi was glowing with the pride and the relief that comes after a particularly challenging and nerve-wracking but enjoyable experience, the Hooper-Holmes family sat at Baker Street, discussing the concert. The girls had long since been battling yawns, and Molly soon insisted that they go to bed before they had to be carried up the stairs.

After the girls were in bed, Molly sat beside Sherlock on the couch. It had become something of a routine for them to sit beside each other on the couch after the girls had gone to bed, during her brief visits. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they spent time pursuing separate interests – research or recreational reading material for Molly, cases or science journals or newspapers for Sherlock. Once, they fell asleep together, like they had that night in California. Most of the time, Molly went to bed first. Sometimes Sherlock would follow her. (All right – he had followed her _every_ time, so far, with the exception of the one evening he'd been called out on a potential 8 by Lestrade. She'd encouraged him to go on the case, smiling at the spark of excitement in his eyes and the torn expression on his face.) He _had_ missed her. She would appreciate all of the attention while it lasted.

She sighed a happy, tired sigh, and leaned her head against his shoulder. He picked up her nearest hand in both of his, and gently, absentmindedly began exploring the expanse of her palm, and her knuckles, and her fingertips.

"One week," he muttered.

"Mmhmm," she agreed happily.

"I was thinking a short ceremony at the Justice of the Peace, with the girls and John and Mary as witnesses, as soon as you are back."

She lifted her head to smile at him. "In a hurry, Mr. Holmes?" She teased sleepily.

Instead of immediately replying, he smirked and lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed a light kiss on her fingers. "Not any more so than you," he stated smugly after a moment.

She rested her head on his shoulder again, and pressed a kiss to his neck. She was delighted to feel the quickness of his pulse on her lips. "I love you," she whispered.

He didn't need to say it back, but he found himself saying it anyways, if in his own way. "The feeling is mutual."

Molly yawned again. "And I agree with you. Small ceremony. Though the girls will be disappointed in a lack of wedding."

Sherlock smirked. "I don't think they'll be disappointed for long."

Molly lifted her head again. "What do you mean?" She woke a bit from her pre-slumber haze. She studied Sherlock's expression for a moment. "Oh – oh! Is it – John and Mary?!"

Sherlock's smirk only widened. "I estimate he'll be proposing by mid-October. Apparently this whole – _family reunion_ – has awakened some sort of sentiment in 'Three Continents Watson'."

"Sherlock!" Molly scolded, smiling widely now. "And do you approve?"

He snorted. "My approval hardly matters."

"It would matter to John," Molly said knowingly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, but he was obviously pleased that she believed John thought so highly of his opinion. "Well..." He thought for a moment.

After a moment, she prompted him again. "Well?"

He sighed, and stretched. "She suits him. He's certainly done much worse."

"Sherlock!" Molly scolded again. "You'd better sound more enthusiastic than that when he asks you to be his best man."

Sherlock sat upright, and gave her a curious look.

She grinned at him. "He _will_ ask you, you know."

He peered at her. "You…think so?"

"I know so."

He looked perplexed.

"You're his best friend, Sherlock," Molly said, a bemused smile on her lips at Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock blinked, and she knew he'd be retreating into his mind palace, soon, to ruminate over this newest piece of information. She also knew once John confirmed it for himself, Sherlock's reaction would be fairly similar.

The man really did underestimate himself, sometimes.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, Sherlock," she whispered affectionately, and went to bed.

* * *

Sherlock was correct. The girls did not protest much that their parent's second wedding was not glamorous and did not involve anyone aside from themselves, John, Mary, Mycroft, Anthea, (the girls insisted that they be invited, though Mycroft and Anthea had sworn the girls to secrecy as to the full extent of their involvement in the whole 'parent trap' event), and Mrs. Hudson. (Greg could not attend on such short notice, though he did bring a bottle of champagne later to celebrate.) The girls did not protest because Sherlock and Molly informed them of John's most likely impending proposal, and the girls soon occupied all their free time outside of school watching John and Mary with increased focus, and using all the methods of encouragement at their disposal to cement the bond between the two of them.

_"Mary's a great shot, isn't she, Uncle John?"_ Said after the couple had taken the girls out for an evening of laser tag, to give Sherlock and Molly some much-needed alone time a few days after Molly had made the final move from California.

_"John's so thoughtful, isn't he? You know he's always been the one to buy the groceries. Just don't let him near a chip and pin machine." _Said after John had dropped off a tin of Mary's favorite biscuits just because he 'knew she liked them'.

_"Wow. Mary's really beautiful, isn't she? And she's an amazing cook, Uncle John. She makes the BEST bread."_ Said one evening as Mary cooked the Baker Street bunch supper.

_"Just pop the question already, Uncle John."_ Lydia had stated that one quite grumpily after startling them by stepping out of Mrs. Hudson's flat and interrupting a rather passionate snogging in the hallway. Mary had laughed and John had given Lydia his most stern 'Not Good' look.

* * *

Days home turned to weeks. Molly continued her fully-funded research at St. Bart's, and also spent time occasionally helping Gunner with autopsies, when he was needed it. Sometimes she saw Sherlock at her work, sometimes she did not. He still kept odd hours and took all sorts of cases, but true to his word, he attempted to at least inform Molly of every case he took, and he made sure to discuss those that were dangerous.

It got a bit ridiculous.

One day in September, barely two weeks from being back in London (and a mere twelve days into their marriage), the girls were in school and Molly was at work. Her mobile buzzed incessantly as he texted her about every single case he took and solved. She received several in the span of a few moments.

_John's at work saving boring lives. Going solo today. – SH_

_Taking a missing diamond case. –SH_

_Found the diamond. –SH_

_It had fallen behind the washroom counter. –SH_

_Seriously, I am not a lost-and-found consultant. I am a consulting detective. That was ridiculous. –SH_

_Didn't even leave the flat. – SH_

_Taking an adultery case. Still not leaving the flat –SH_

_Solved. –SH_

_Taking a plagiarism case that looks promising. Possible 6. –SH_

_Never mind. Solved. Still at Baker Street. – SH_

After this went on for an hour, she was nearly laughing in disbelief. She told her supervisor she needed to take care of something at home, and that she'd return as soon as possible.

She arrived at Baker Street while Sherlock was standing on his armchair, peering down at the head of the client in front of him. "I'm afraid, Ms. Flangerhanger-"

"_Flaversham_," the young woman corrected, irritated –

"-whatever. I am afraid that it's your roots." He stepped off of the armchair, and gave Molly a questioning glance.

Molly responded with an encouraging smile.

"My roots?" The young woman asked, confused. "Why would that affect my employment?!"

Sherlock gave the young woman an insincere smile. "Unfortunately, your employer has a habit of entering into relationships with his staff. He is, in laymen's terms, a complete and utter piss-pot, and is only interested in seducing young women with naturally blonde hair. You, Ms. Flibbertigibit -"

"_Flaversham_," she correct again –

"Never mind. You, unfortunately, or – in your case – probably fortunately, considering the morals and past of your ex-employer – are naturally a brunette. He did not realize this when he hired you, and now that he has found you out, he has made some rather flimsy excuses to let you go. I should think you're better off, now."

The young woman blinked. "Oh," was all she could manage to say.

"Oh indeed. Now, if you'd be so kind – my wife has something she'd like to discuss with me." He inclined his head toward the door.

"Um…thank…you?" The young woman asked, as she made her way out the door.

Molly gave her a kind smile, and then refocused on Sherlock as the woman left.

Sherlock gave her a tight smile. "Solved. Still didn't leave the flat," he muttered, as if by habit.

She smiled at him, and clasped her hands behind her back so they'd have something to do besides fidget nervously by her sides. "Sherlock, I appreciate that you are being so open and honest with me about the cases you are taking on. It does mean a lot to me that you are including me in your work." She paused, and drew in a breath, considering how to phrase her next statement.

"But-?" Sherlock prompted her.

"But you don't need to tell me about _every single case_," she explained. "I mean, you can, if you want to – when I come home from work. But – you don't need to tell me about cases you don't leave the flat for. In fact," she continued, "you don't need to tell me about every case you _do_ leave the flat for. I mean, I would like to know – that you're – out, solving cases, of course, and if you're going to be out late, or later than usual…but…" she took a breath. "I suppose…what I'm…trying to say, is that…I trust you. If you haven't taken a case yet that's seriously endangered yourself since the girls have been born, I trust you to continue being careful. I trust you to come home to me. To us. And of course, I trust your judgment. If you – or John – or – or – Greg, feel that a case is dangerous, or that it includes something I need to be aware of, then please, please tell me. But – I trust you. I can help you decide…for now…if you want, what constitutes as important enough to tell me…and so can John, or Greg. But really…if you're consulting for Greg, or if you're just solving cases at home…I don't need a text update." She eyed him for a moment, and rushed to add – "Unless you want to give me one, of course."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment before sighing dramatically with relief. _"Thank_ you, Molly." He closed his eyes and sat down with a mirthful smirk. "And just reconfirming for you…no seducing. And I will inform you if I feel there is a threat to my life or limb. Even if it worries you."

She stared at him for a moment. "You did that on purpose, didn't you!" She exclaimed - but really, she couldn't help the exasperated smile on her lips. "Thank you," she said softly, in response to his confirmation.

He sighed again, and reached over to his laptop to search for another case to solve.

After a moment, he looked up. She had moved so that she was standing in front of him, and was watching him with a small smile on her face. "Molly?" He asked.

"We're going to be all right, aren't we?" She asked in a low, happy voice - but it was more of a statement. Like she knew they would be, and she was confirming that for him.

He returned her smile with a small, steady one of his own. "If we aren't already, we're well on our way."

She nodded, and reached over to shut his laptop.

After a break that went a bit longer than they'd originally intended, they both returned to work.

It was an adjustment for the entire family, being together again - but it was one met with enthusiasm and a determination to support each other through thick and thin. There were tiny squabbles over things like chores and food and manners and the appropriateness of certain experiments in the kitchen, and eventually a few larger ones about child-raising and world travel, but the Hooper-Holmes family worked through them with friendly sarcasm, gentle confrontation, practiced forgiveness, and an almost obscene amount of affection.

Because if life for the Hooper-Holmes clan and their odd, extended family was slightly unconventional, so was the depth and sincerity of their love.

* * *

Mid-October

"Shh, Dad – they'll see us," Lydia scolded.

"If you're shushing me, that means they'd _hear_ us," Sherlock corrected, an amused smile on his lips.

"You know what I mean," Lydia grumbled.

"We shouldn't even be here," Gigi worried, whispering.

"Your mother would have stopped us if she believed it to be out of line," Sherlock replied. "She'd probably be here, too, instead of covering a shift at Bart's, if Gunner's wife didn't suddenly go into labor."

"She _did_ tell us not to interrupt," Gigi pointed out.

"We're not interrupting," Lydia replied. "We're observing. We'll only interrupt if he starts messing it up."

"How would he mess it up? Didn't he help you plan yours, Dad?"

"Shh," her father replied, focused on the scene below them.

The trio stood on the fancy balcony that overlooked the restaurant that John Watson had chosen as the location of his proposal to Mary Morstan. The group attempted to stand behind one of the pillars, out of the couples' line of sight.

"He's going to do it!" Gigi whispered excitedly, noticing her uncle nervously flipping the ring box open and shut on his knee.

John leaned forward, and spoke earnestly with Mary for a few minutes. Mary's face was shining with gentle encouragement and love – and a hint of amusement.

Lydia sighed. "What's taking so long?" She hissed.

"Be patient!" Gigi admonished. "He's confessing his _true love_."

After another moment, John took the box and extended it toward Mary, opening it. Gigi bit her lip and clasped her hands with excitement, and Lydia leaned forward with a gleam in her eye.

Mary nodded, and John grinned, and Lydia let out a _whoop_ that was just a bit too loud. The couple looked around for a moment, before Mary raised her eyebrow in the direction the trio was hiding.

"Shhh!" Both Sherlock and Gigi shushed her, and Lydia grinned sheepishly.

"Oops," she shrugged her shoulders.

Gigi sighed. "I can't blame you. It is so romantic, isn't it?" She peered around the pillar. "Hey! Where'd they go? Uh-oh – I think -"

"What do we have here?" John's cheerful voice interrupted Gigi's musings.

Only Gigi had the wherewithal to look somewhat abashed. Sherlock and Lydia were grinning at the newly engaged couple.

Mary smiled gently at her. "Well, love – I don't know about you – but it looks like two bridesmaids, to me."

"-and a best man," John added, pulling Sherlock in for an enthusiastic handshake and hug. Sherlock responded with an awkwardly pleased sort of half-smile. He stood staring at nothing in particular for a moment, processing the request, as the conversation continued around him.

"Really?!" Gigi gasped, obviously pleased.

"Do I have to wear a flowery dress?" Lydia asked suspiciously.

"Yes, and yes, though it won't necessarily be flowery," Mary replied, laughing. "But you'll also get first shot at the food at the reception." She gave a knowing lift of the eyebrow to her niece.

"Can I plan the menu?" Lydia asked, always happy at the prospect of good food.

"You can _help_," Mary said firmly.

"Deal," Lydia grinned, and allowed herself to be wrapped in the embraces of her Uncle John and Aunt Mary.

* * *

Several months later, Gigi and Lydia sat picking at cake, soundly stuffed and observing the first dance of their aunt and uncle on the dance floor. Their father had composed an original waltz for them, and their mother was sitting beside them, teary-eyed at the music.

Gigi had also played them a piece at the rehearsal dinner, but claimed she had too many responsibilities as a bridesmaid to try and play at the reception itself. No one argued with her.

After the bride and groom's waltz was finished and the beginning chords of "December, 1963 - Oh What a Night" were floating around the reception hall, Sherlock strode up to his wife of ten months. "May I have this dance?" He asked, holding out his hand with dramatic expectation, a serious, neutral expression on his face.

"You may," Molly replied with equal seriousness, before a smile broke out on her face.

Sherlock turned to his daughters. "Lady of the house gets first dance. Your turn will come." He winked at them.

"I call the first Kelly Clarkson song!" Lydia stated. She knew, in fact, that "My Life Would Suck Without You" was to be played in roughly twenty minutes. She'd made a suggestion to the DJ as they'd entered.

"Then I call 'Little Bitty Pretty One'," Gigi said immediately after. While Lydia had helped plan the menu, Gigi had helped create the list of songs to start the evening with and knew the song would be played in about fifteen. She and her father had been practicing, and she was excited to show off her new swing-dancing skills.

"Deal," their father said, before pulling their mother onto the dance floor.

He'd finally succeeded in teaching Molly how to dance properly. Well – most of the time. Molly still broke out into some fairly silly moves occasionally – but no one could deny the open (if slightly begrudging) affection on her family's faces, even when she did so.

* * *

As they spun around the dance floor and spoke of wedding things (Molly was determined to praise each of the amazing things Sherlock had done for this particular wedding, including his speech and solving the almost-murder of Major Sholto, an old friend of John's), Sherlock let it slip that Mary was expecting.

Molly dropped her arms and stood there, a look of complete shock on her face. "What?!"

Sherlock frowned. "You didn't notice the fact that she's been sick the past few mornings? Or that she's put on four pounds? Or that she distinctively disliked the wine she'd chosen that she'd adored three months ago?"

Molly laughed. "I did not. I was busy noticing the fact that Gigi and Lydia needed haircuts before the wedding, and helping with 'calculations' for John's stag night that ended up being a moot point anyways, and that my husband was obsessing over folding napkins, and that you and John both needed to blow off some steam before you went insane with all the wedding planning. Mary noticed that too, if you remember correctly." She smiled at him, taking up her previous position and falling back into dancing with him. "Do they know?" She whispered.

He grinned smugly at her. "They didn't."

"Sherlock – you – told them?!"

"I did."

"Sherlock!"

He spun her out again before pulling her close. The song was ending, and the familiar introduction to 'Come on Eileen' began. Sherlock showed no intentions of stopping their dance. He adjusted their stance and cadence to the new beat and continued with as much enthusiasm as before. "He's a doctor, Molly, and she's a…well, she's a nurse, among other things. It was appalling that they didn't notice before. I was almost afraid I'd have to have 'the talk' with him." He rolled his eyes and gave her a smirk.

" 'The talk'?!" Molly burst out laughing. "I didn't even know you knew what 'the talk' _was._"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response. "Amazing as it is to believe, my father did give me 'the talk', Molly. Though his attempt at 'the talk' failed rather mightily, considering I'd been studying human anatomy for years by the time he got around to it."

She laughed again, and after a moment to catch her breath, continued. "Well, I can't say that I can blame John and Mary for not noticing. They've been pretty busy with everything lately."

"I'll say they've been _busy_," he replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Sherlock!" Molly snorted. Dancing really did bring out a rare side of Sherlock that brought a thrill to her heart. She'd learned that as they'd gotten better and better as dance partners as he'd taught her the past several months, and as they'd gotten more free in their movements - he'd gotten more free with his words, as well, and he was never as flirtatious as he was when he was dancing.

He stopped for a moment, as if reading her mind - and pulled her close, moving in half-time to the beat of the song, and began to murmur the lyrics into her ear - with a few minor changes.

"_Come on Molly – I swear what I mean – at this moment – you mean everything-"_ he twirled her around, and brought her back close before continuing, his hand sliding seductively down her side and resting on her hip, the fingers of his other hand releasing hers and trailing up her arm to rest on her neck and brush against her hair – "_with you in that dress – my thoughts I confess – verge on dirty-_"

Breathless and emboldened, she raised a seductive eyebrow at him and, starting at his navel, slid her own hands up his chest, resting one on his shoulder, her thumb gently stroking, gently pulling at the fabric of his shirt near his collar, and the other trailed up his chest to his neck, her own lithe fingers tugging gently at his curls, pulling him down so that she could reach to kiss him properly. His arms tightened around her, and he returned her kiss with barely restrained enthusiasm. She could feel his lips smiling smugly at the small sigh he elicited from her as he pulled her closer so that she was flush against him.

"Hey!" John called, as he and Mary passed by them. "We're the ones supposed to be burning up the dance floor, you two!"

Molly broke away from Sherlock, who growled in mild, good-natured frustration, and she grinned at them. "_Congratulations_, by the way!" She whispered loudly, giving them an obvious wink as they moved away.

Mary paused for a moment, beamed, and leaned in, speaking with a low voice. "Sherlock, if you tell anyone else tonight about our little surprise I'm not going to be responsible for what happens to you. You really don't want to mess with a pregnant bride. Especially one with my particular set of skills."

He returned her grin with a cheeky one of his own. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said innocently.

* * *

After hours of dancing with their parents, their aunt and uncle, and each other, Gigi and Lydia sat beside each other, indulging in another piece of cake. They'd moved some chairs so that they could prop their feet up as they ate, and were watching the remaining party-goers with a careful eye and happy giggles.

"Hey, look who showed up!" Gigi bumped Lydia with her elbow.

In a dark corner, helping himself to a piece of wedding cake, was their Uncle Mycroft. Anthea stood beside him, checking something on her mobile before sliding it into her purse.

"Ha! He would go for the cake," Lydia snorted. "Dad said if he did make an appearance, that's where he'd go first."

"Mmm," Gigi agreed, watching the couple by the cake intently.

"Well," Lydia continued, carefully popping another bite of cake into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "What do we do now? I mean - we got our parents back together, you played for the LSO, we've solved mysteries with Dad and researched with Mum and planned a wedding for John and Mary…" she sighed. "Regular life is going to be boring after all that."

Gigi nudged her sister again. "Hey – _look_ at them," she inclined her head toward Mycroft and Anthea, again.

Mycroft was handing Anthea a plate of cake, a napkin, and a fork. Anthea smiled and took it. The way their gazes lingered for just a moment distinctly reminded the girls of how certain _other_ adults in their lives looked at each other.

"What – oh. _Oh._" Lydia sat up a little straighter. "Is he…did he really just serve her a piece of cake?"

The girls watched for a moment, smiles slowly growing on their faces.

"Gigi," Lydia said nonchalantly.

"Mmm?"

"I have a brilliant idea."

THE END

* * *

**Lots of love to all of you followers, favoriters, and reviewers. xoxo**

**Arcoiris -Thank you! I am glad the mind palace scene worked. Because I needed a reason for Molly to leave so that Sherlock could go after her. I'm really happy that you enjoyed it, that it worked, and for your review. Your reviews are loveliness!**

**Guest - Thank you! But, I am no 'm' writer. Just not my thing. *blushing* *shifty eyes* :)  
**

**Black Night - Haha! And yes! I knew that! Everyone was like 'WHAT THE HECK ACD?!' I can only imagine the visit from his mother. :D Your reviews are so lovely and funny and make me smile. :D Another big grin for you. :D Hope you enjoy this chapter as well. **

**Em Kay Who - Thanks! I've never tried Mythea before but I've certainly enjoyed writing their developing-into-something-a-bit-more-than-friendship in this story. :)**

**Did you notice my little reference to The Great Mouse Detective? Just a teeny one. Because why not?**

**Also…I realize that last line may hint at a sequel…but I'm not quite sure if I'm going to write that right now. Maybe one day. Not sure exactly what the plot would entail, but I like the idea of matchmaker Gigi and Lydia!**

**I have ideas for 2 one-shots from keeptheotherone and myself that are post-Trap and focus on the Hooper-Holmes family that I will probably casually write these next few months.**

**If you have any ideas you'd like to see for one-shots about this crazy little family give me a PM and I'll see what I can do, but alas, I cannot promise I will be a fanfic-writing machine during the school year. **

**I'm actually looking forward to catching up on a lot of fanfics myself after all this writing! (Here's lookin' at you, Emma Lynch!)  
**

**Thanks again, everyone. It's been fun. : )**


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